


Liminality

by Luorescence



Series: Vector Animae [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angel Family, Angel Mojo, Angel Siblings, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Fantasy, Gen, Grace Bonds, Magic, Mates, NaNoWriMo, Nephilim, Pre-Canon, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Siblings, Wings, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luorescence/pseuds/Luorescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Michael and Lucifer’s constant skirmishes, Heaven is a mess Gabriel wants to escape from. However, unwilling to depart Heaven itself, Gabriel takes solace in watching the life of his vessel on Earth. That is, until God orders them to exterminate the Nephilim; the perfect occasion for the archangel to finally have his vessel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liminality: first part — Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome there,
> 
> First, I wrote the story for this year's NaNoWriMo and it's already finished. I will only post it once per week, or once per two weeks, though: even if it's complete, I'm still editing it and some bits are unfitted to be published yet. Moreover, I haven't decided how to cut the chapters so... Yeah, there's still a lot to do.
> 
> Anyway, about the story itself. It's part of the Vector Animae verse, and is a sequel to Moonlight but it isn't necessary at all to have read it to understand Liminality. For now, the verse is centered around Gabriel and his time before posing as Loki, and his departure from Heaven. The story itself is a prelude to his departure itself.
> 
> An important part of the story happens on Earth, and features the Nords (obviously because of Loki). Please keep in mind that even if I based on the Nord culture and mythology, there'll be differences. Like the fact that the story happens way earlier than the documents we have on Nord culture, as in centuries BC, whereas the Viking Age happens AD. I was also inspired by other fictive Nord universe such as Skyrim and Yggdrasill.
> 
> I'll update more informations about the verse [here](http://paper-fold.tumblr.com)., and if you want any questions, don't hesitate.
> 
> Big big thanks to everyone who encouraged me, and even more to Fjeril who beta'ed me and listen to my ramblings during the writing.

**LIMINALITY**  
First part — Apocalypse

* * *

When a child,  
certain skies sharpened my vision:  
all their characters were reflected in my face.  
The Phenomena were roused.—  
At present,  
the eternal inflection of moments  
and the infinity of mathematics  
drives me through this world where  
I meet with every civil honor,  
respected by strange children  
and prodigious affections.—  
I dream of a War  
of right and of might,  
of unlooked-for logic.  
It is as simple as a musical phrase.

— _War_ , Arthur Rimbaud

* * *

One instant was all she needed to recognize the sword. It was asbeautiful as its representations engraved on books’ pages. The hilt’s pommel was the body of a spider, carved into onyx. Its long legs entwined on each other to form the grip and finally transformed into two serpents, which were the quillion. One was standing in the air, fangs barred, while the other slithered around the cutaway. The blade itself—of a deep semitransparent ruby—wasn’t flat at all, more close to a twig in its shape than a sword. The silvery runes carved onto it disappeared under the bright red blood flowing into their lines, retracing them.

Alangan chocked blood out, her eyes on the Ás when he put the legendary sword further in her belly. She bit hard onto her lips then, obviously stopping herself from screaming when Loki twisted Lævateinn. She swayed on her feet, about to fall. The god though, took her small frame into his arms before that happened, securing her against his chest, meanwhile he was muttering into her ears. 

“Always knew it, ya fucking bastard,” the alfr said, her voice weak but much better than moments ago. It seemed almost as steady as before the whole debacle happened. She felt her heart clench at the thought.

 _K_ _á_ _ra, get out of here._ The valkyrie knew the archangel was right, but she couldn’t convince herself to depart when the last of her companions was dying right in front of her eyes. That would be unacceptable. She had been enough of a coward. Her fists tightened when she felt her wrath to Gabriel and Alangan come back. The valkyrie slowly shook her head: not wasn’t the time to let her emotions get the best of her.

“Kára, why are ya still here? He’s gonna kill ya, ya know it—” Blood blurted out her mouth, staining her white goatee. “Ya still have a mission waiting for ya—” Her voice was so coarse and different from her usual high-pitched tone it ached to hear it. “Ya kidding, right…” 

 _For the sake of all that’s holy, please_ _!_ _Kára, please, listen to the alfr._ _The gate is open, g_ _et out of here!_  

There was an edge of panic in Gabriel’s words, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. Kára couldn’t help the smirk: where was the all powerful being that had vowed to protect her, now? The cringeworthy arrogance and confidence were missing from his pleading and, despite the circumstances, that was satisfying. She heard flutters of wings above her, as Gabriel alternatively spoke to her and the other angel, prompting her to go and telling him how _they_ couldn’t leave if Kára herself was still there. Although she could now clearly see Castiel’s and not just his wings made from the very fabric of the shadows, she couldn’t hear what he answered. 

In front of her, Loki had now a knee on the ground, arms cradling Alangan like she was a delicate doll.He was still whispered to her, too quiet for Kára to hear the whole discussion. But, from the small she caught, the language he used wasn’t one she could have understood. From time to time, he was glancing at her, a wicked smile on his face and these peculiar eyes of him, full of dark promises.Diving Lævateinn further into the alfr, he winked at her, passing a tongue on his lip. The valkyrie shivered. She closed her eyes, pressing on the stump of her right arm until she hissed, to push the growing fear away.

Behind her was the gate, its runes glistening as it maintained the passage between Nidavellir and Midgard open. She just had to take a step back into the golden liquid. Then, she would be back into her realm and would be able to close it before Loki could cross it. She couldn’t bring herself to do that, though. It felt _wrong_ to let Alangan die alone in the Ás’ cruel hands. If she were to ignore her mate’s suffering, what sort of person would she be? She had been forced to watch every one of them fall. Turning her back to the alfr’s last moments? She wouldn’t do that. She was better than that. 

In her mind danced the memories, as fresh as it had just happened: Fáfnir in all its draconic majesty above their heads, his four wings stretched out while he launched a fireball at them. The quiet but strong confidence that the shield cast by Rafn and her brother wouldn’t fail protect them, followed by terror, when Aldi had emerged on the square, a big grin forming on his lips when he had seen them, as if he had been searching for hours. There had been Rikardr and Adalrikr behind him, the later stopping the first from running after Aldi. And then, when the fire and lava had engulfed everything, gliding on the barrier without touching them, it had also taken Aldi. She hadn’t looked away, she couldn’t. 

In that same way, she hadn’t turned away when her companions and friends had met their end, moments ago. Even if she had been restrained, she could have turn away, but she hadn’t. She wasn’t that kind of person. And even if she died today because of it, she would let it be that way because at least, it was a fate she had chosen. 

There was a soft liquid texture on her cheeks, Gabriel’s feathers caressing her. The scar on her back emitted warmth through her body, soothing a little her pain, but for now, the archangel had fallen into silence. She was grateful of that, as listening to him was only growing more tiresome, and there was no way to shut him down. 

“I’ll pray for your soul to find rest in Valhalla,” Kára eventually said, approaching Alangan. She sat next to her, ignoring Loki’s gaze on her.Then,she took the alfr’s small hands in her’s. “Will you, at least, let me perform the ritual to send her by the Allfather’s side?” she asked the Ás without looking at him. He kept silent, but made no move to stop her so she took that as a yes. 

“Ya’re a stupid very _very_ stupid valkyrie, Kára daughter of Heimkell Oath-keeper,” Alangan answered, turning her big mismatched eyes on the valkyrie, clear and piercing, as if she wasn’t on the verge of dying anytime soon.

“Sorry.” Kára let go of her hands, putting her fingers on Lævateinn to coat them with the alfr’s blood.

“Na. Ya’re nat.” Kára traced the runes on her companion’s forehead, then moved other her eyelids and cheeks. “Was a great honor to fight at yar side. Will wait for ya, with the others, in Valhalla.” 

When the valkyrie finished chanting the galdr to send Alangan’s soul to the Allfather, there was a sharp snap. Like he had done before, Loki had made Lævateinn like her body disappear into thin air. She was left alone with him, Gabriel and Castiel somewhere above them, but their wings were on her, shifting hues of light for the first, and moving material darkness for the second. Like that could protect her from an almighty god. A divinity who was now pouting like a child.

“I really like her, you know? We’ve known each others for centuries, had friends in common also. The first time I met her? It was here, when my brother and Hœnir came to visit the Fallen King. She was such a sweetheart. I wish I hadn’t had to kill her.”

His expression could have been contrite if Kára hadn’t known who she was dealing with. She forced her dry laugh down her throat. Nobody had forced him to kill anyone as he was powerful enough not to be threatened by mortal beings like her, or vættir like a simple alfr. And yet, he was denying his responsibility. That was so pathetic and childish that, if someone had told her that, she wouldn’t have believed they were talking about an Ás: the Allfather’s sworn brother even less. That was so disappointing. 

“I like you too,” he said while moving to stand just in front of her. “It’s not a lie,” he added after a little while. Like that would make him more sympathetic. “That’s such a shame.”

 _Kára, please._  

But the valkyrie couldn’t take a single step back; Loki was now gripping her shoulders with an inhuman strength. She could feel the bruises that were already there, darkening under his fingers, as well as the burning of the arborescent mark on her back, like Gabriel was trying to shoo the god away. The tips of the branches were right under the smug bastard’s touch, almost as painful as in the beginning and she hissed. 

She shrugged also, trying to disengage herself from Loki’s grasp to no avail: the Ás didn’t even seem to notice she had moved, his head cocked on the side to study her. At least, her face was nothing but a mask devoid of any expression. She wouldn’t let him see the fear gnawing at her stomach, nor the agony she felt. 

“Even if it was very short,” he eventually said, looking a little bit remorseful with his pouty lips, “It was good traveling with you.” A wink came along his words, as well as one of his usual charming smiles. “I’ve loved every bit of it.”  

Kára wanted to make him eat his smile. She had never liked it anyway.“Since you seem keen on making revelations, may I ask you something?”

“Anything you want, milady.” He gave her the lewdest stare she had ever seen on one’s figure. “Do you have needs to be taken care of before we pass to more serious matters? Because it will be a pleasure to indulge in it,” he added in a sing-song manner. In the back of her mind, Gabriel was screaming his indignation. She chose to ignore both of them.

“Why?”

Her eyes left his face, looking far too young and far too affable for what he actually was. Her fingers curled into a tight fistwhile she was mentally swearing. They had been set up, manipulated from the beginning. And none of them had had any doubts, except for Alangan, maybe. That was enraging to see that they had been nothing more than puppets dancing to the god’s strings. The least she could have was some explanations. 

“Because.” 

Loki lifted a hand from her shoulder. With it, he cupped her face, forcing her to look at him as he caressed her cheeks with a fake tenderness. Kára felt her stomach contract with disgust. Then, he moved it to her hair to play with her curls. 

“Of love,” he finished with a satisfied grin. “Like you, Nords, I love my family very dearly…” he stopped a for while, rolling his eyes when added, “Well, except for that poor and boring Sigyn.But well, let’s say it’s the exception which proves the rule.”He shrugged. “And so, I love my brother. Your bloodline always was dear to my brother and your father, Heimkell? Oh _dear_! Anyway, what I mean is that you’re loved by my brother, and for that, I love you guys.” 

His voice was so sweet it ached to hear it. It felt like a poisoned honey was slowly sinking its fangs into her. He purred, “But Sökkólfr, you see, he was my favorite mortal, always had been since I first met him. He was my liege, under my protection. Why did he die? Because of his feud with your kin. And my son, Jörmungandr? That injuries my brother’s son inflicted on him were pretty bad, you know. And who convoked Thor into the battle? Your kin, again. See the link here?” 

“You unleashed Jörmungandr in the first place,” she spat. Was he really serious? So, all of this was because of a gridge lasting from twenty years ago? This was so messed up and infantile. She took a deep breath to give herself courage, speaking before the god answered. 

“You don’t react well when things don’t go your way, do you?” She laughed when saying that. Because playing brave and insolent were better than weeping on her fate. And if she could find some satisfaction in Loki’s disgruntled face before dying, it was all for the best. He didn’t look annoyed though, only grinned from ear to ear, like she had just told the best joke ever. 

“Well, my dear, let’s review our situation.” He started counting on a hand.“Your son is dead. Your companions are also dead. You’ll be dead in no time. And not to forget, your _whole_ bloodline—not that you are many anyway—will meet the same fate. The answer to your question is pretty clear, I reckon. And things _did_ go my way. My brother will be very saddened by your demise and the fall of the Himinsfall clan. That’s my little revenge on him.” 

 _Kára, please, say yes. I’ll protect you_ , Gabriel said in her mind. But like the other times, she ignored him. He wouldn’t be able to do anything for her anyway, not if she didn’t let him borrow her body like Adalrikr had done with Castiel. She had seen the results; there was no way she would let that happen to her, no matter what he said. She was tired of being played by supernatural beings like she was a mere toy. 

“Moreover,” the god continued. “That pretty spirit—or whatever he is—who took a liking to you and follow you like a good dog, I very curious of what his reaction will be. He seems interesting.” 

“You really are a bastard,” Kára replied when she heard Gabriel cursingLoki in languages she couldn’t understand. 

“Hello,” he said, loud and haughty. His voice was nothing but a whole bag of smug and condescension. “They call me Loki.”

She felt his hand going down her back, just between her shoulder blades, right in the middle of Gabriel’s mark. He pressed her against his chest before murmuring into her ear, “Now, milady, it’s time for you to make your goodbyes.” 

Flashes of memories passed. These numerous tranquil evenings when sitting by Aldi’s bedside, Thórvaldr and her read stories and legends to their beloved son to lull him to sleep, before blowing the lantern’s flame when the little sunshine was finally asleep. Her spouse, who was still waiting for her in Thorhöll, while protecting her brother.Hopefully, he wouldn’t join her in the after life before long while herself would find Aldi, wherever he was.

There was also these afternoons when of her much younger years, playing at the city’s feet with her brothers and the other children of that time with an unstained joy; a time when the battle of Loptbord hadn’t happened yet, and none of them were orphans. She thought of Trjónn who had died in the battle, at her father’s side. And of course, his sister and her fellow valkyrie and best friend, Róta, whose body had been torn in two when Fáfnir’s tail had taken her. There were also the brothers Rafn and Arnulfr, who had taken their parents’ charge after their death. Arnulfr and his young apprentice, who had put an end to the dragon thanks to Castiel’s help, at the price of both lives.

Róta and Arnulfr had always been her companions, and she hoped to join them in Valhalla. 

“You won’t suffer, I promise,” Loki said gently.

 Kára thought of her other mates. The childish joy of Adalrikr and the easy smile of Myr, both of them promised to a bright future before Death had taken them. Hárbjarg’s loud laughters and Alangan accompanying him with these high-pitched chuckles of her, as she played with her hairy goatee. In the meantime, the skald wouldplay, as skillfully as ever, providing a beautiful musical background to their life every time he could. She felt her guts clench at the thought.

 _Gabriel?_ She wished things hadn’t gone that way. However, according to Loki’s own words and scheme: no matter how the events would have happened, the results would have been the same in the end. If she could though, she wouldn’t let him have his way further. The dead were dear to her heart, but there were also so many livings who also counted. She couldn’t let them die at Loki’s hands. The god had messed with them enough already. She might be only a mortal and ignore what an archangel was, if she was as important to Gabriel as he made it seem like, he would be listen to her last will. She had already seen glimpses of his strength and was sure he could, at least, annoy Loki a lot, and put a hold to his plans. 

 _Yes?_ Gabriel answered, his voice full of hope. She felt the nudge of his feathers, like a gentle caress on the small of her back. He hissed when Loki put his head on her shoulder. She prayed to the Allfather. 

“I’m sorry,” Loki muttered. But Kára knew he wasn’t. “I can’t let your soul go to my brother’s side. But my daughter will take care of you,” he added, and the valkyrie felt his grin against her skin, where her armor had been crushed earlier, in the nape of her neck. She quivered with revulsion, loathing that a mere mortal like her couldn’t harm an Ás. 

_The ones left in Thorhöll. Protect them for me, they are my family._

She just had the time to register Gabriel’s shriek before the world went black.


	2. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of a new day. Gabriel once again seeks solace in the Clepsydre while Kára is already engaged in battle. Nothing unusual for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness. Anyway, I hope you'll like this chapter.

 

“There are times when solitude is better than society, and silence is wiser than speech.”

― Charles H. Spurgeon

* * *

With a graceful barrel, Gabriel dodged a lightning bolt. It only grazed him, making his feathers ruffled. A second one came soon after, hitting an image of him, that crashed into the ground with a dramatic flash when it vanished into the air. No damage whatsoever since that one had been a mere clone, but he still let his annoyance and anger echo through the link tying every member of the Host to each other. 

If Raphael as well as some lesser angels sent him words of sorriness and support, Michael and Lucifer payed no mind to him. No surprise here,but it was still as infuriating as in the beginning. Obviously, that was without mentioning the insufferable racket their constant arguments made in everyone’s heads; Raphael and himself much more victims than  anyone else as they could hear more thoughts than the others. Nor their destructive behavior each time their Dad wasn’t home—that happened more and more frequently—like both of them conveniently forgot how to be civilized. One day, He would be back to a field of nothingness because the two idiots wouldn’t have been able to control their temper.

The archangel let out a relieved sigh when a lightning bolt dissolved far above him, before it became a threat. The sky was gradually becoming clearer as the Astrolabe came into perception. Gabriel let himself rise, then stretched out his wings to plane over the silvery waters it was constructed on, taking a childish glee on letting the tip of his feathers brushing the liquid to make trails in his wake, while disrupting the dragonflies buzzing on the surface, and the fishes just under. 

The site consisted of nine circles—tympans—of stepped pyramids. The mater, the largest tympan by far with its many buildings circled the eight others, whose size decreased each time, until the inner circle that was composed of only four pyramids, the highest ones, each placed at a cardinal direction. A multitude of walkways and bridges linked the different buildings, creating a complex but beautiful heap of iridescent tunnels of glass as angels came and left in an endless stream, their wings like shifting little color balls from the distance.

Since it was the center of Heaven and stood just under the Garden, it was so bathed in their Dad’s power that even his idiot brothers’ petty fights couldn’t scratch it. Their attacks would only disperse in the air if they fell in a certain perimeter around the Astrolabe. Which were very fortunate, because it was the most important place in Heaven, where the Host’s whole infrastructures were situated, from the halls were the cherubs hatched, to their own offices. Without that, Heaven wouldn’t be able to function at all. Also, it had became a haven for those who weren’t willing to take part in the oldest children of God’s little war-games. People like him.

Or people who were pretty serious about their duty, Gabriel thought as he flew straight to the inner tympan. He landed on the top of the obelisk built in its middle, its foundations buried in the water. From here, he could admire the waterfalls falling from Eden, above, like a shimmering veil around the Astrolabe.

 _You’re back_. 

Like always, Ezekiel’s deep voice found its way into his mind, stronger than the rest of the Host. His mate greeted him with a brief caress of his wings as he came next to Gabriel, but far enough to not be touching him.Gabriel refrained himself from orderingthe seraph to scout closer; he wasn’t bratty enough to use his authority to order such a thing from his _mate_. Moreover when he was very aware of Ezekiel’s effort to do the wing-touching salute, as the angel never had been one for public display of affection. A thing his brothers—as mostly Lucifer—would often tease him with, like being mated to an archangel was something worth bragging _except_ if it was to Gabriel. 

 _How did it go?_  

 _Good. I like the kid, he’s like a little ball of sunshine_. _And pretty perceptive also, he saw right at the moment what I wanted._ In fact, the child had been much more smarter than what he had thought. Incredibly witty and a little too audacious for someone in front of an archangel, not that he knew what an angel was to begin with. That had greatly amused Gabriel. _Authorized me to use his appearance though, kind of dared me in fact._

 _You didn’t have to ask him_ , the seraph replied back, his words filled with a perplexed curiosity. Gabriel let his mate touch his mind. As usual, Ezekiel was nothing but cautious and delicacy, trying not to overstep any boundaries the archangel could have had, even when the later never ceased to tell him how he wasn’t against any little mental nudging from him. To which, Ezekiel stiffened in an awfully comical manner before smacking him like he was a disobedient cherub. That time, the seraph stood still for a while, sorting what he had seen. Then, he tilted his head on the side. _You still do not wish to be like your brothers._  

 _Did you meet them?_ Gabriel said in a petulant, but joking tone, while pointing to the sky with the tip of his superior wings. 

It hadn’t a single definite hue, more like an entire palette of ever-changing colors that swirled, sometimes forming big cotton-like clouds. They were stars sprayed in it, like a fine layer of glitters. Lighting illuminated it, resonating with his brothers’ words as they were arguing. 

 _Not a great example to follow_ _, don’t you think?_ Gabriel added with a dry chuckle. _If I can, I prefer to have the consent of the ones I’ll be masquerading as. Will you come with me this time?_

 _I have duties to take care of, brother._ He already had interrupted them to see the archangel.Even though he didn’t voice it, the slight reproach in his tone was clear.

 _At least come with me in the Clepsydre, Zeke. I won’t detain you more than that_ , Gabriel replied back, immediately willing them in front of the obelisk without waiting for his response, part of their inferior wings bathing in the water. There wouldn’t be anyone to complain if Ezekiel was with his archangel of a mate, anyway. Except the seraph himself, now scowling and wings flapping with annoyance under his touch, although he didn’t speak.

The doors closed after them when they entered the corridor leading to the core of the Clepsydre.The world suddenly became quiet. The voice of the Host went totally silent, making Gabriel’s wings flutter with relief. As often these times, the place was devoid of any presence, nobody really interested with watching the Earth from here when there was a civil war raging outside.

Truth to be told, the absence of his siblings was nothing less than appeasing; lately, except for his mate, he hadn’t found any solace in their presence. And certainly not with the other archangels, whom he avoided as much as possible. 

The injury they had inflicted on his superior-left wing had been healed a long time ago, but the emotional trauma of the knowledge they could harm him still weighed on him. Much more than what he had like to admit. That day, something in how Gabriel perceived his brothers had changed.Neither Lucifer’s attentions nor Michael’s profuse apologizes could modify that. Not when Gabriel knew they could harm him by accident, which they already had.  

His last and first experience had been particularly displeasing; he wasn’t keen on reliving it. It had so profoundly scarred him that—at totally random times—he would feel where a scathe had been, a sharp white pain like a tangible memory of the hole that had been there. The agony of feeling his flesh being vaporized into nothingness as the tissues were torn apart by the bolt. Knowing it was an illusion, a mere carnal reminiscence wasn’t of any help. If anything, it made things worse to think that he couldn’t move past the recollections.

Sensing his trouble, Ezekiel shifted next to him, spreading his four wings out in an invitation Gabriel would never refuse. He traced the clear crystal blue feathers,their fairer tips faintly glistening while dark veins ran through it, making them an exquisite blue monochrome. The archangel rejoiced in gently rubbing it until their watery texture took a more solid and rugged form around the edges, like pure and brut stones. 

When he felt Ezekiel softening, Gabriel wrapped his own wings around them, pressing their bodies together, each finding solace in the other’s embrace. The ball of entangled limbs they formed slowly drifted in the middle sphere; the droplets of the silvery liquid in suspension in the air sliding on them, but never wetting the points they touched. 

The Clepsydre was a unique spot in Heaven.Surely in the whole universe, Gabriel thought, staring at the polychrome lights of countless stars while Ezekiel was stroking the small messy feathers growing where his wings and body were connected. Even if its entrance was in the center of Heaven, the place itself stood somewhere in outer space, moving through it. The void beyond the glass was a comforting view in these agitated times, its relative stillness never ceasing to soothe him.

 _Take care of you, brother_ , Ezekiel said after a while, disengaging from their embrace. _See you later_ , he added while fondling Gabriel’s wings. 

They quivered in acknowledgement and gratitude, but the archangel made none movementswhatsoever when his mate departed. His attention was on the imposing throne in the center of the sphere, carved into a crystalline material reflecting the starlights, like a small sun illuminating its surrounding. Meanwhile he knew it would be empty —it was only a reflection of the one in the Garden anyway— he couldn’t help the stare at it, nor the flinch of his wings when he thought of His presence in the place, more glorious and kind than anything else. And four cherubs, the firsts of a whole kind, perched on the high armrests, bathing in His mightiness.

However, he soon turned away not to linger on the growing sensation of despair in him, gulping down the wail he knew he would have produced otherwise. He wasn’t here to dwell in his spleen, or weep for a past already accomplished and that couldn’t be changed. He wasn’t like his brothers, he wouldn’t let himself lament again and again over things like that.

Instead, the Gabriel grabbed one of the innumerable glass balls floating around. With a deference he rarely used these days, like the precious treasure it was, he delicately cupped it within his middle wings.After that, the archangel let his other wings wrap around him, keeping his body in a bright iridescent cocoon. 

With care, Gabriel infused some of his grace in the transparent material, watching it dissolve with a cherubin mirthwhen the silvery liquid it contained expanded in the air, like it was stretching. For a little while, it moved in his feathers, slithering between them to finally form a sphere rotating on itself.

He leant over it, observing the images reflected on its surface. Eventually Gabriel went completely still, his consciousness far from Heaven, the Clepsydre and the fightings outside it.

* * *

Men dropped like flies around them, the smell of fresh blood going heavier with each new death.The two valkyries stood back to back, slowly tracing circles, pushing back and killing their enemies with a facility they weren’t used to. Not that it was surprising coming from a band of novice brigands, pushing their luck a little too much. Kára suspected they were former farmers, with much more experience with a fork than any real weapons. Any trained warrior would have been able to defeat them. In a way, she felt a little disappointed they weren’t a challenge, not that she would admit that out loud ever. 

Róta however, hadn’t such qualms, as she eventually said, “That’s really no fun.” That sure changed a lot from bunches vættir and their followers. “I actually feel bad for them. This isn’t rig—” Her friend was interrupting by the sharp sound of metal on metal. There was a loud scream then the thud of a fallen body. “They shouldn’t be out there in the wild. I wish we weren’t doing that right now. That’s not even a fight, look at them!” 

“I know.” On that point at least, they agreed. Going around killing almost defenseless persons had a bitter taste. Still, seeing the circumstances, there weren’t other choices and, if needed, she would do it again anytime. 

And Róta was aware of her position on that matter, which were the reason she lowered her voice, disapproval in her tone when she replied, “The draugar must have attacked their farm. This is not their fault and you can’t be so casually okay with that. That’s wrong, Kára.”

As sad as it was, that kind of story was beginning to happen frequently, no less than one attack per week. That was bound to happen because of the increasing number of draugar roaming out of their barrows. A number that would most likely only increase as time would go by: until now, its augmentation had been steady and she couldn’t see why that would stop anytime soon.Amongst the sorrowful consequences were many farmers leaving their lands, some of them becoming mere outlaws. Thus, the roads weren’t as safe as they should have been. The fact they had lost far too many men in a too short timespan was the most jarring thing.

“Their actual way of life, the path they’ve chosen to walk on, is their own choice.” Kára couldn’t help the frown on her face while she continued, “Coming to Thorhöll and seeking help from Reifr would have been the right thing to do. He would have given them new lands, and send us.” 

The leather of her gauntlet scrunched when she tightened her fists around her spear. She wished the bandits would be more reckless to work out some of her frustration on them. They had been in the beginning, charging at them without any formation, their number greatly reduced by the chaos that had followed. The seven left were far more cautious now, not approaching the five feet area her spear could cover and eyeing warily at Róta’s axe. 

At the moment, they were only observing them, and she caught one looking at the edge of the trees, surely searching for an escape path. Or not, she thought when she saw the high figure emerging from the woods, a broad man made of nothing but muscles, only a fur cloak over his barren chest. He had a giant axe that seemed to weigh nothing in his large hands. He was coming to them at a fast pace, and seeing how the former farmers stepped back to clear him a path, he was no friend. 

“Their demise is the consequence of their choices, the responsibilities they have to assume.”

The words came out of her mouth without her even thinking about it. Between them, similar discussions had happened a few times already.The sudden multiplication of the draugar’s number through the clanhold had brought misery to the land and it was inevitable thatcertain people dealt with it by turning to despicable ways of life, as dangerous for the other clansmen as monsters. While Róta naturally sympathized with their loss and sufferings, would be more inclined to spare them if possible; in Kára’s mind,they were to be treated as nothing else than outlaws and dealt with as such. As protectors of the hold, it was their duty. 

“They’re outlaws attacking innocent people. No better than pests or harmful vættir, and have to be treated as such.”

Snow splashed everywhere as the valkyries rolled on the soft ground, out of the giant axe trajectory. Because of the recoil, the bigman staggered back, thrown out of balance by the force of his swing. His guard was left wide open when he tried to regain his position. It was all Kára needed to launch a blow to his stomach. She turned her spear in his bowels until it impaled him, its head coming out of his back.

She didn’t linger on his stunned expression when he fell to the ground, not quite dead yet. Her next adversary was already at her, sword held high to strike, screaming to give himself courage. The hit, clumsy and weak, bounced on her shield. When he stepped back, his heavy pantingand hand on his side like he had a stitch. It was clear his little assault had weakened him much more than it would, have had he been a warrior. That was a shame he wasn’t: she liked his boldness and would have appreciated having a real battle against that kind of foe. 

When she released her spear to fall back into a more practical position, she swore loudly. Despite his tall height and bulky size, filling every bit of his worn tunic, he was only a boy with a round face full of freckles, not much older than twelve winters. Young enough to still be playing with wooden toys and hide-and-seek with his friends in the woods, when he wasn’t helping his parents or with his master. 

“What’s your name, boy?” she asked as she unsheathed her sæx, appreciating its familiar weight in her hand. 

“Uh! You’re gonna kill me anyway!” he spat with the harsher accent most peasants had. Even if he was staring at her with eyes full with defiance,his limbs were trembling. His Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down.

“Kára daughter of Heimkell of the clan Himinsfall.” She put her right hand over her chest in the formal valkyrian salute, fingers brushing her left spaulder, where her crest lied. “Chosen by the Allfather to select and guide to Asgard those I see fit.”

“A valkyrie!” he gasped. For one instant, awe animated him, his expression were nothing but childish wonder. Then, it was gone and he pouted, his grip tighter on his sword’s hilt. The valkyrie couldn’t help but finding it kind of cute, reminding her of another boy. She mentally smiled when he pursued,“You can’t be! That can’t be… That’s impossible!”  

“At my hand,” Kára said like he hadn’t spoke. “You’ll meet an end of honor, worthy of the warrior you could have grown up to be in other circumstances. My prayers shall guide your soul to Valhalla, where it will rest. Now, boy, give me your name.”

Her tone was firmer that time, almost parental. That made him even more nervous and he nibbled on his lower lip, as if uncertain of what to do. In contrast to that, his grasp on his weapon grew a little more secure. He opened his mouth a few time, about to speak but backed off. He eventually shook his head. 

“You lie, woman! Uh! D’you think I’m gonna believe _I’m_ , me the simple farmer boy, chosen to go the Allfather? You’re stu—”

He stopped right in his tracks when Kára shushed him with a hand gesture. She rolled her eyes, nevertheless spoke a softer, “I’m not an adept of blasphemy.Trust me, I’m not a fool, I would never try to imprecate such a holy title by usurping it. The Allfather is kind neither with usurpation nor deception.”

There was a small silence before he sighed. “Gunngeirr son of Gunnólfr. There.” With the tip of his sword, he showed the big man her lance was in, his face growing dim and eyes watery. He looked down and his voice was shaking when he continued, “That’s my pop right there. These things, you know, they… By the Allfather, it was so horrible! Mom and Frida, my lil sis. And my big bro too.”  He lifted his head, looking at her with clear eyes, sniffling a few time. “Will you hunt them?”

Kára inclined her head, putting her sæx’s hilt on her heart as she answered with gravity, “I am a protector of Himinsfall. It’s my duty to hunt whose menacing the hold.” Then, she readied herself for combat. “Now, Gunngeirr Gunnólfson, prepare to die.”

When Gunngeirr rose his weapons, he bit his lip and drew blood, as if it would stop his body’s quivering. Kára could see the sweat pearling on his brow and the flare of his nostrils. His fear seemed almost tangible, within range if she stretched a hand to touch it. But his stare itself, was unwavering, sharp and determined. 

Kára took a deep breath. Her sæx pierced his heart before the boy had the time to move. The prayer he was reciting died on his lips as he toppled over the valkyrie. Maintaining him against her with one hand, she pushed her sword out of him, then swept it on his tunic before sheathing it. Then, she crouched squatted down, putting his head on her knees. She removed her right gauntlet to soak their tips of her index and middle finger with Gungeirr’s blood.

First, she closed his eyelids, sighing with relief not to have him stare at her with lifeless eyes anymore. Then she was tracing runes on his face, bright red lines faintly glistening on his tanned skin. Finally, she put a thumb on his lips, dry and creaky, and chanted the galdr to send him to the Allfather.

When she finally felt the soul departing the body, the valkyrie bowed low, addressing prayers and praises to the Allfather. 

“This is also what I call wrong, Kára.” The sudden hand on her shoulder startled Kára, but she relaxed when recognizing Róta’s sweet voice. “Do you really think the boy had a choice in the path his father had chosen, when he was his only family left? The children shouldn’t have to suffer for the mistakes of their parents. How many of them have we killed already?”

There was nothing Kára could answer to that. They couldn’t let these children live, for the danger they represented in the long term. Still, she had never been a monster, and she also was a mother. The duty of the valkyries shouldn’t have included the demise of mere children, whose cause of death was nothing more than misfortune.  

She washed her fingers with snow and stood up in silence.A look around informed her that Róta had already disposed of the other men. She felt a little bad she had let Róta do most of the work.Her friend brushed her apologies with a smile. 

“Let’s go. It’s only the beginning of the day and we have Febœr to visit and, without a doubt, a long road full of surprises ahead.” 

Kára nodded while putting her gauntlet back on her glove.When Arnulfr had caught the trails left by the bandits, they had been on their way to the Febœr farm, where draugar had last been spotted. Róta had statued the criminals had to be dealtwith before they resumed their current hunt.Right now, the veidimadr was waiting for them at the little pond where their group had halted, keeping their mounts and thralls safe. They couldn’t stay here longer than necessary.  

The dead would have to wait, she thought as she withdrew her spear from the boy’s father’s belly. She cleaned the body fluids with a chunk of his tunic, averting her eyes from Gunngeirr, only a few feet away, like that would push the younger’s face in the back of her mind, where she wouldn’t be able to see it.

Although she recited galdrar and ancient poems to distract herself from the thoughts, it failed. Vivid hazel irises werestaring at her with this awe most children felt for their parents during their youth. Gunngeirr had Aldi’s eyes, messy flaxen blond curls that stuck everywhere, and freckles also, albeit Aldi —like his father— only had his cheekbones and nose covered with it whereas Gungeirr’s whole face was spread with it. 

Truth to be told, it was the sole features they shared: Gunngeirr was taller than Aldi, rude work making him much more muscular, with a skin tanned by hour spent outside while Aldi had been a small child with soft curves and a pale skin tone. Still, Kára couldn’t help drawing a parallel between the two boys: their dea—  

She shook her head: thinking about it wouldn’t do any good. She had to stop before dwelling into parts of her spirit she didn’t want to see. 

“When was the last time you sent someone to Valhalla?” Kára finally let the questions slip out of her lips, kind of wishing that speaking about anything would help her to concentrate on something else. 

Róta, who was walking a little ahead of her, stopped right in her tracks. Branches cracked under her feet when she turned back to watch her with undecipherable light brown eyes, her expression far more grave than usual. For moments, she seemed so lost in her thoughts that nothing could have troubled her; not that Kára would have done anything to do so. She wouldn’t even dare moving, as if the tiniest movement would disturb her friend. Now, she began to feel bad about that. On the top of that, Aldi’s face superposed on Gunngeirr’s wouldn’t vanish from her mind.

“A very long time.” Róta swallowed a few time, beginning sentences only to stop in the middle of it, and then shaking her head like words escaped her grasp. Kára’s fingers twitched at each try and she fisted them, wondering if she should stop her companion.  

“The Battle of Loptbord,” Róta eventually said, her jaw clenched and face grim. “I’ve never sent a single soul to the Allfather since then.” She made a long pause, a hand touching the dark brown cormorant feathers decorating the long braid on the side of her face. “The number of souls the valkyries sent to the Allfather… I _really_ hope no valkyrie will have to do such a thing in the future.” 

She grimaced, looking away for an instant before looking into Kára’s eyes, caramel-coloured irises full with gravity when she continued, “Since then, the warriors I met and defeated never seemed valorous enough for me to guide them to Valhalla. Sometimes, I even catch myself thinking that almost no one deserves that honor anymore.” Her hand fall back on her side and she made a little smile. “Fortunately for me, the Allfather hasn’t yet expressed any discontentment with me. But I think that might be because Ölrún, Skuld and you are doing a very good job at sending beautiful souls to Him.”  

Her smile widened and even if there were no wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, it made Kára feel better. When the older woman winked at her, she rolled her eyes in a fake annoyance.

“Anyway, I’m sure that boy will find solace at His side. You did the right thing, Kára, don’t worry about it,” Róta said, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. 

Kára didn’t answer, but she nodded. She stepped back from the physical contact that felt a little bit too heavy; it wasn’t about Gunngeirr she worried after all for she knew she had done the right thing. She had only brought the subject to think of anything that wasn’t Aldi, reminding her friend of awful memories and that made her feel guilty.

“We shouldn’t make the others wait more,” she eventually said, uneasy under the other’s steady gaze, as if she knew her response hadn’t given solace to Kára at all. Said woman masked her unease by brushing a red curl off her face as she resumed walking. 

When they reached the pond not long after, Kára was relieved to see that everyone was there, safe and sound. The horses were gathered next to a patch of tall grasses half-covered with snow, munching on it happily. Adalrikr and the thralls’ noisy chatter greeted them as they approached, while Arnulfr nodded at them, already mounting back on his grey horse.

Kára went straight to Logior,patting the stallion on his neck before getting on his saddle. He snorted with annoyance when she ordered him away from the bushes he had been chewing on, splattering around more snow than necessary and making the horses next to him whine. That made her chuckle lightly.

As the group left the pond a few moments later, in the corner of her eyes, she caught hazel-eyed and curly blond-haired children watching her intently. She turned away, her fists tight around the reins, wishing her mind would stop playing cruel tricks on her.


	3. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through Metatron, God delivers promises of future battles. Battles of all kind are also what Kára knows are mapping their road to the end of their journey, a final destination that at last, acquires a name. Words are spoken and plans are being made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for my lateness (again)!
> 
> But hey! Now you know how many chapters are left.

A soft heart, that hates the vast and dark void,  
From the radiant past hoards any fragments!  
The sun has drown in its own thickening blood...  
Your memory glows in me like an ostentory!  
—  _Evening Harmony_ , Charles Baudelaire

* * *

They were a tangled mess, feathers sticking out everywhere like a spiky ball, but content and comfortable as they watched the ichor’s golden shimmer gradually turn to its usual silver and retract into its receptacle. The archangel cursed the fact that due to the place’s nature, they couldn’t sense anything beyond its entrance. That was the reason why Ezekiel’s quiver stung Gabriel in sensible points when the Clepsydre’s doors opened, and also shattering the cosy silence between the two of them. 

The Morning Star came strolling in, bright and fierce as usual, wings held high and spread out, like there was someone to impress here. Gabriel’s tip of wings twitched with amusement at the useless display before choosing to ignore his brother for the time being, in order to extricate his wings from his mate’s, both of them wincing the times they were just a little more rough than necessary. 

 _Go, we’ll see each other later_ , the archangel told his mate when they were eventually done, flapping to let ragged feathers fall.  _Thanks for passing by_.  

Ezekiel nodded and obeyed. When Lucifer passed next to him, the seraph bowed low to him, his two pairs of wings plastered against the ground in submission and obedience. His older brother answered the salute with a pat, before turning his full attention to Gabriel, whose wings were lazily draped on the throne’s stairs like a veil. 

He couldn’t help the admirative whistle at how much disgust Lucifer’s grace exuded, waves of a hate carefully controlled, but intense enough to knock the ichor balls out of his way, like he was chasing away a swarm of gross things. As if the devices where almost as bad as these puny humans the Morning Star despised so much, without even letting a chance to prove themselves. Just because their Dad treasured them more than him. What a brat.

“Hey, Lucy.” Gabriel extended his grace to brush his brother’s in greeting. Lucifer returned it with a gently stroke of feathers, stepping back when the other said, “Mike and you already finished? Because I’d like to able to go out of here without one of you thinking I’m a great target.”  

The acid in his words might have been unnecessary, but he took a vicious pleasure to use it. He definitely wasn’t over what had happened to his wing, no matter how many years had passed. 

“Don’t be like that, Gabriel. Not my fault this time, I promise.” Lucifer shuddered. “Not that  _you_  were really the target, mind you. ”

“According to you, it’s never your fault. That could easily have been me and my wings. Remember last time? When I was at the receiving end? It really hurt. I don’t want to experience that,  _ever again._ ” He winced, unconsciously reaching for his superior-left wing, where the injury had been.

“The Imprisonment of Eve, the Fall of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and so many other battles.” Mockery dripped in his tone when he continued, “Gabriel, commander of the Lord’s army upon the Earth, you have suffered much worse injuries, haven’t you?”

Gabriel scowled and glared at him. Yes, he had seen much worse in past battles but, “Never by my own brethren’s hands,” he finished aloud, venom in his voice. His wing twitched again. 

His brother didn’t seem to notice the gesture, probably ignored it along with his words. He took him into one of these strong and reassuring embrace he liked to give the other angels when he was satisfied with them, telling them how much he loved them. Always a charmer the Morning Star was. 

“Congratulations!” Lucifer was literally beaming. “That clone you exchanged place with when the bolt was about to hit you? It was perfect. I was sure you’d succeed. Funny little trick clones are, don’t you think?” 

Gabriel was totally  _not_  grinning, proudness and gladness going from one archangel to the other through their graces. He even smacked Lucifer in retaliation when the latter ruffled his feathers.

“Bro, stop speaking to me like I’m a cherub. It’s kind of unnerving.”

Lucifer used the same playful tone as his fellow archangel. “Careful, Gabriel, the more time you pass in this place, the more irritable you become.” He added his voice lower, “You might want to check that.”

And stop watching little bipedal cockroaches, they’re not worthy of your time, was what his brother left unsaid. However the message was clear as Lucifer knocked away a glass ball when it touched him, like an abomination had dared to touch him. 

That irritated Gabriel more than anything else he could have said. As long as he didn’t neglect his duties—which he fortunately wasn’t—what he was doing with his time was none of Lucifer’s concern. What did he want him to do? Stop heavenly wars? That was definitely not within his area of competence, nor his will as he didn’t want to interfere with his brothers’ petty fight. So, if he watched over humans to avoid them, it was his own problem. Lucifer, amongst all, had nothing to say. 

“Still better than what Mike and you do when Dad has His back turned.  _I_ ’m not trying to break Heaven,  _me_.” His brother stiffened, but refrained from any comment, and Gabriel was grateful for that. He didn’t wish them to have a confrontation of any sort. “So now, why don’t you tell me what you want with me, so that we both go back to more interesting things?” he asked rather abruptly to change the subject. 

Lucifer wasn’t bothered; he didn’t push the delicate subject further. Instead, he shuddered when replying, “The little scribe has received a Word from our mighty Dad. He summoned the archangels. The four of us.”

Well, that was unusual. Metatron had always been secretive about what he received from their Dad, unwilling to translate the weird language—they weren’t even able to read it—he was writing in.  

“What makes it different from the usual blah-blah? It’s not like he even cared about telling us what Dad wants him to write.” 

When they had asked him, he merely had dismissed them like they were nothing, told them it wasn’t meant for them. They would have gladly given him a reminder of their status, but their Dad had been adamant about the annoying angel: Metatron had been chosen to receive His Words, he was to be treated with as much respect and deference as Him. In that way, the guy was pretty much off-limits and all archangels avoided him as much as possible. The scribe did the same, and until now all had been rather good. As long as he stayed away from them, they wouldn’t touch him.

“I don’t know, it might be important.” Lucifer shrugged. There was a feral edge in his next words. “It’d better be important. If it isn’t worth it, we’ll just have to punish him. A little reminder that archangels aren’t at his service, even if he’s Dad’s precious pen.”

“Well,” Gabriel sneered, mischief in his voice when he pursued, “Even if we don’t touch him or anything else. There are  _so_ many way to intimidate him and, with four of us, it should be pretty easy. The little coward is already afraid of us anyway. We can easily play on that.” 

“What are you thinking of?”

“Isn’t it time to remind the Host that their archangels can work together if they put their mind into it?” Gabriel was already amused at what Metatron’s reaction would be when he would find out. “We’ll do that in the Garden. An official audience like if Dad was there.”

That made Lucifer laugh as they slipped out of the Clepsydre. Raphael and Michael were at the entrance, staring at them with a questioning gaze. Gabriel was glad to see the merry flutter of their wings when he explained the details of his little scheme. At least, for the moment, his brothers weren’t fighting and the respite was so very welcomed. Even if it meant they had to deal with Metatron. 

_METATRON!_

Gabriel was nothing but pure smugness when he felt the angel flinch, stuttering and shaking. He hadn’t aimed for discretion, literary howling his name so loud the Host went suddenly quiet, the attention of legions turning to Metatron and him, curious of what the scribe had done to receive such a call from an archangel.

_As you demanded, the First Choir will receive you. We’ll meet you in the Garden, at the feet of the Lord’s throne._

They were about to have so much fun!

* * *

When they emerged from the forest, the sun was shining bright in a clear sky. From there, at the edge of the plain, they could see the large mill in its center, and the form of the buildings around. Róta rose a hand in the air, fisting it to make the group come to a halt, in their movements as well as words, each of them attentive to their leader. 

“Totti, Agi.” Her friend’s eyes rested on the two young warriors, who bowed their heads. “Lads, I want you back in Thorhöll.” Agmundr was pouting but he didn’t dare interrupt the valkyrie. “It’s an important mission,” Róta added, with an encouraging smile. “Go to the jarl and tell him you bear the words of the valkyrie módir. Ask him a squad and you’ll guide them to the pond, where the battleground lies. There, you’ll salt and burn every fallen.” She turned to Kára, addressing her a large grin. “Except for one young lad. His name’s Gunngeirr Gunnólfsson. You won’t miss him for he bears the mark of the valkyries on his face. He’s to have a sepulture worthy of his status.” 

Kára sent her a grateful glance, answered by a pat on her shoulder before Róta pursued, “After that, you’ll come back here with the men.”

“What then?” Agmundr asked, bushy eyebrows frowned, the corners of his mouth down. It was clear he wasn’t happy with the orders.

“Vífill and Finn will stay here with further instructions.”  

While the rest of the group would progress further on their hunt, was left unsaid. Agmundr seemed about to protest but his uncle elbowed him and he settled for a shrug, obviously sulking at being left behind. Kára noted with amusement Vífill’s eye roll. 

“Understood, lady Róta,” Thorsteinn said, bowing his head. He turned to Agmundr, messing playfully with the younger’s hair, much to his dismay. “C’mon, Agi. Let’s go.”

They didn’t wait longer to depart, with a few words of encouragement from the others. Then, the group was back on the road, the mood relaxed and chatty. Next to her, Finnbjörn was speaking of his betrothed and the baby expected for the end of the winter, how he hoped the wise women were right and that would be a girl. 

“Careful for what you wish, Finn.” Vífill was grinning. “You might end up with a bossy future valkyrie in your house. No offense, ladies,” he added playfully looking at Róta and her, his laughter creasing the corners of his dark eyes. “But these things you can hear when you pay just a little attention.” 

“You just listen to Reifr’s rambling, don’t you?” Kára replied, rolling her eyes as she pictured her brother with a full mead mug in one hand, the other gesturing in the air as he told the guests about their childhood.

“With the four of you, we have plenty of stories going around,” Finnbjörg was laughing, his half up ponytail bouncing. He pushed a strand of light-browned hair behind an ear. “And I’m totally willing to put up with a pushy kiddie girl if she’s to grown into a beautiful warrior later.” 

“Yeah right, cousin, just tell you that,” Vífill answered back.

Their familiar banter came to a halt when Róta spoke, moments later, as they were less than a mile of Febœr. She told both of them to inspect the surrounding area, searching for any Nords that might have survived the attack, or many threats lingering there. 

She didn’t wait to see if the warriors were already on their way to address the youngest of their group, her tone softer then before, but nonetheless commanding, “Rik, Myr, why don’t you light a fire and fetch one of the goats roaming around here? I’m counting on you, lads!” she added with an encouraging smile.

Adalrikr mumbled something but moved anyway, guiding his horse to the fields where some goats were grazing. In the meantime, Arnulfr dismounted, giving his horse’s reins to Myr.

“Take care of Andra,” he said to the thrall before he shifted his attention on the valkyries. “I’m going by feet now. Easier to track a trail.”

They stopped a few feet of the main building, a large manor, three storeys height of thick dark wood on stone foundations. The three of them let themselves off their saddles, the valkyries leaving their mounts in Myr’s care. Kára watched her friend enter the house, memories of many journeys coming to her mind.

Febœr was the hold’s largest farm, a commercial hub with their large productions of wheat and goat rearing. It was also a village in itself, a resting point on the road linking Thorhöll to Vatnreid. While the upper levels were home to the families running the place for generations, the ground level was nothing less than a tavern with many rooms, food and music; everything travellers needed after a long day of riding.

On the stairs leading to the large doors, there should have been a line a screaming merchants, while thralls hurried around through a packed yard, busy with work. Children should have been running around, squealing and fighting, under their parents’ vigilance. 

She walked to the high mill at the far end of the yard, assessing her surroundings in the same time. If not for the occasional crooked planks sticking out of the walls, the buildings hadn’t suffered real damages. The ground however was covered in pieces of broken furnitures, and were the snow was melting, she could sometimes see dark stains. Here and there were straw and provisions, which must had been in now-shattered barrels. 

The eerie quietness was  _wrong_ , Kára mused as she was turning a muddy apple in her hand, examining it. She sighed and dropped it, her eyes glancing over the unsalvageable waste at her feet. That was a pity.

As she walked through the domain, also searching in the small dependancies for anyone or anything, she noticed that despite the material traces of battle—dry blood on the mill’s stone walls, or arrows stuck into wheat flour bags—there wasn’t a single body lying around. 

She went out off a shed, a familiar— _too_  familiar—dreadful sense of anticipation dawning on her as she came to the center of the farm, at middle distance between the mill and the house. Then, she crouched, fingers tracing the  _mannaz_  rune in the dirt while she murmured one of the aura galdrar. 

There was a light pulsing sensation in her eyes, not pleasant but nothing painful. The colors in her vision gradually turned into shades of blue. A human form stepped into her sightline, its outlines almost blurred by the bright orange flame where the heart was. She disinterested herself from the crouching Arnulfr, who now was walking alongside the fence, surely searching for footsteps or any indices of a trail to follow.

She walked through the yard to the paddock, which gates were destroyed. One led into the domain, and the other in the vast plain that had given its name to the farm. There, small lights—the goats—roamed freely. To her right, Myr was skinning one of them while Adalrikr was starting a fire. Absorbed in their tasks, they payed no mind to the valkyrie, who turned back.

At the far end of her field of vision, she watched Finnbjörg and Vífill coming at a fast pace to the farm, alone. She returned to the rune, erasing it with her feet when Arnulfr came to her. She blinked, relieved when the stinging feeling in her eyes vanished. 

“No souls linger here. And there are no corpses too. So, it’s most likely that all dead have been transformed,” she told him, lassitude in her voice. For either, it wasn’t a surprise: merely an observation they had done too much time already. 

The veidimadr’s messy hair slowly returned to a light blond and the tattoo baring his face, from one ear to the other, was a red line once again. His nose was wrinkled and his expression dark when he spoke, “I can’t tell exactly when they were here. The snowfall has washed away part of the smell, but it’s here, the lingering odor of decay and rotten flesh.” He showed a hole in the fence, between a kitchen garden and small storage shed. “And definitely stronger there. I guess we better go this way when we’ll finished here. It leads to the East,” Arnulfr added after a little silence.

Pictures flashed in Kára’s mind at the mention of the East, the unsaid implications: the only place in the eastern part of the hold that could interest the draugar. The world stopped. She felt her body grow tense, childhood memories renewed by the recent events. The death that had reopened old wounds. And again, she was walking into a succession of natural caverns, at the head of a solemn procession, leading them further in the mountain, to the monumental twenty-feet tall doors. She remembered the cold of the grey stone when, as a child, she had traced with awe the outlines of the figures carved into its panels—the ones she could reach anyway—finely sculpted reliefs of passages of Himinsfall’s history. She had taken time to read the runes graven into the sculpture, the benediction of the Allfather on these sacred grounds, as well as a warning to all who weren’t meant to enter.

And beyond the doors, in the depths of the mountain, majestic halls filled with columns inspired by the ones found in the Southern lands, large and tall. Everywhere were red and white marbles imported from far beyond the Kingdom. They had walked amongst imposing statues of figures of the past, into a silent city. Still, its magnificence had never been enough to bring her solace, and the memories were tied to grief and affliction. The never-en— 

 _Stop it_. She snapped herself back to reality by bitting into her cheek, the slight pain anchoring her into the present. Arnulfr was watching her with attention, but didn’t comment on her absence, and she felt grateful for that.

“Angardr?” she eventually said, her voice less steady than she had liked.  

She ran a hand through her hair, playing with a curl, as if it would distract her from uninvited memories of the most unpleasant kind. In the same time, she forced her eyes to focus on the veidimadr’s face, tracing the line of his eyebrows, the hairs so pale they were almost invisible. 

“Since we’ve been hunting them, the core of the group have always been heading to the East,”Arnulfr replied grimly. “The Holy Necropolis could be their final destination. It seems legit.” 

The veidimadr was about to add something, but Finnbjörg interrupted, “We found three of them.”

Kára’s eyes went on the three full bags Finnbjörg and Vífill were carrying as they came to them. She closed her eyes, muttering prayers to the Allfather while the cousins carefully put them on the ground. In a silent accord, they began to gather wood into a large pile while Arnulfr went back to the horses.

“Halldóra, Finna and Audunn of the Blárhestr clan,” Vífill announced. “Shot by arrows, the three of them.” 

“Right, typical.” Kára let out a loud resigned sigh when he came back, a bag in his hand. The pattern was the same every time. “They were the youngest. Children still too young, small and weak to make good draugar,” she said as the veidimadr emptying the bag until there was no salt left in it. Finally, they lightened the pyre, accompanying the slow burning by prayers.

Later, Kára wasn’t capable to mesure how much time had passed, a loud crackling followed by a short bark of laughter caught their attention, breaking the solemn mood they were caught in.

Arnulfr shook his head, nose wrinkled and blank face while he went to the boys, who were at the other side of the domain. With a skill born from experience, she pushed the swirl of negative feelings in a far corner of her mind, where she wouldn’t have to contemplate them. Then, she followed the veidimadr with an amusement hidden by a stoic expression, knowing the younger Nord wouldn’t take well the mockery when he was about to reprimand his apprentice and thrall friend. For that matter, said person instantly stop laughing. In the meantime, Adalrikr shifted uncomfortably on the ground, fingers moving with nervousness on the lace of his cloak, as he was used to when he was caught doing something bad or embarrassing.

Kára’s eyes went to the hearth were a strip of meat was slowly burning. Obviously, that was another failed try of Adalrikr with the process of drying meat. Not surprising from the young man when he never had to cook himself, always having thralls to cook for him, even during the years he had been placed in a lesser family. Obviously, his return the Gullhaust clan hadn’t helped at all, as he had been spoiled like they often were when they moved back within their birth clan. Moreover, this was the first time his master and cousin had allowed him to come with them in a long trip; that sort of things was meant to happen. 

She coughed to mask a laugh, making a small gesture of compassion to Myr, who was making hard efforts to stiffen his chuckles when his friend started to grimace, face red with embarrassment.

She saw the illusion then, when looking at the fire. They stood at the other side of the fireplace, seating in the dirt, children with familiar eyes and hair. Their laughters were a wondrous marvel to her ears—a mix of Aldi’s soprano voice and Gunngeirr’s deeper tone, which made awkward high-pitched slips because of his youth—as they mocked Arnulfr and his cousin, like they were a part of the scene.

Kára pinched herself to make them disappear: there were no way the boys could have been here, and her mind usually never tricked her into such elaborate lucid dreams. Still, with their clear and bright skin — alabaster for one and an olive brown for the other — they seemed as tangible as if they were real, shadows created by the fire dancing on them without dispelling the illusion.

When he caught her stare, Aldi shook his hand with that large grin of him, all big teeth showing while Gunngeirr slowly shook his head, shrugging like his companion were being the most idiotic being on Midgard. Aldi just giggled at his reaction.

“Kára?” 

Róta soft voice snapped her back into reality. She hadn’t seen her friend coming back, hempen bags in her hands that she piled on the ground. The older woman glanced at the smoke coming from the other side, but made no comment about it, comprehension dawning on her face as she put a hand to her braid. Then, she was looking at her again, waiting for a report. 

The children were still visible, but no matter how tentative it was, she couldn’t let herself dwell further in her fantasies. She put a hand in her hair, grabbing a few locks and pulling hard at them, letting the irksome sensation preserve her from it. Next, she took a deep breath.

“The area is clear, and no corpses except for the youngest children of the Blárhestr clan.” Róta winced, then nodded, encouraging her to continue with a wave of the hand. “We have no indication of how much advance they have over us, but we can confirm they’re still heading east, which they’ve done for as long as we have been hunting them. The core of their horde does anyway, only straying from their path when there’re houses and farms in their vicinity. It’s like they’re trying to build a small army.” Kára turned briefly to Arnulfr, who made a small nod. “Arnulfr and me think they might be trying to reach Angardr.”

“Building a small army to break into Angardr? That would be logic.” Róta hummed her agreement to the theory. “With a little chance, the Holy Necropolis is as warded against undead as it is against living beings.” She ended her sentence with a little sigh, but smiled nonetheless. “Not that we can’t do much about that for now.”

Arnulfr lifted his eyes from the pots Myr had put in the fire, where he was cooking the meat they didn’t intend to keep as provisions. “So, what do you want us to do?”  

“First thing,” Róta answered as Arnulfr and she sat down next to Adalrikr. She turned to Vífill and Finnbjörn who were joining them, placing themselves at the other side of the hearth, where the illusion had been. Kára was relieved to find they had disappeared into thin air, replaced by her two companions, whose attention was on her valkyrie, waiting for her orders.

“You two,” she continued. “You’ll stay here and wait for Totti, Agi and the other men. We wouldn’t want bandits to occupy the place, would we? As for the rest, we’ll head to Vatnreid, stay there for the night. Tomorrow will be a long ride to Angardr. Send a message of our intention to the jarl, he’ll want to know what we’re up to. Now!” Róta turned to Aldarikr and Myr with a large grin. “Lads, what about grabbing a bite before returning on the road? The meat you’re cooking looks delicious and I found some vegetables in the kitchen.”

She pointed at one of the bags. Kára tossed it to the boys before taking place next to the veidimadr.

“So, how were these bandits?” Adalrikr asked curiously, knife in hand and already cutting a leek. “I’d like to fight them.”

“They were former farmers, not fighters.” Róta answered, shaking her head. She took a cheese wheel out of a bag to slice it.  “They wouldn’t have been much of a challenge for even a warrior in formation.”

“A fight’s still a fight. There’s always things to be learnt.”

Kára caught Vífill’s snicker at the youngest enthusiasm and he winked at her. Róta wasn’t sharing his amusement though; her friend knew how much she despited having to fight, execute, these people. 

Arnulfr’s scowl was eloquent enough on what he thought of the statement. Still, he spoke aloud, making his point clear for his apprentice, “There’s nothing to be learnt from people who don’t know anything.” His tone was dry when he added, “Would you ask Myr to teach you reading?”  

Myr sent an apologetic smile to his friend. 

* * *

The sky had shifted to a canvas of dark colors with nebulous clouds sprinkled over it, in an imitation of the space. There was even a few moons casting shimmering lights on the Garden and the Astrolabe beneath. The archangels were in the central part of Eden, floating above a large pond where many species of waterlilies grew, garnishing its surface with what seemed like colorful candles glowing under the moonlights. Fireflies as well as dragonflies buzzed over the waters, and a few herons, their long legs taking careful steps while they were examining the depths, waiting to catch the Koi carps populating the area.

Joshua had retreated beyond the pond’s limits to tend to other parts of Eden, pretexting he preferred to leave them enough privacy for what they were about to do, much to their amusement: they had made it clear they weren’t aiming for a nice little audiences between closed walls and psychic barriers.

No, they were following Gabriel’s idea of a brilliant display of power and authority, because hey! Metatron’s summoning had happened at a perfect moment to remind the Host their archangels’ divergences of opinions didn’t erase their bonds. They were brothers and loved each others very much, thank you. 

So here they were, at the feet of their Dad’s lantern-shaped crystal throne, its heavy curtains closed as they had always been since He had created the rest of the Host. He had never let anyone but his first-born angels see Him.

Positioned at equidistance from each other, each above a circular platform of the same clear material as the throne, engraved with Enochian sigils as they as their names and titles. Their wings were extended to their full size, interlaced to form around the throne and them, a cocoon, its aqueous shell iridescent. They seemed like a closed lotus-shaped sculpture with a prismatic structure, bathing the open hall in shifting polychrome lights. 

Because the Lord’s throne room was the highest point of Heaven, and its center, they knew they were like a sun, much brighter than anything and for now, visible to anybody, angels and humans confounded.

For the occasion, like his fellow archangels, Gabriel had stripped off of the psychic veil that dampened their thought waves to a standard angelic intensity, which basically meant the Host could read them— _most_  of them anyway, they were thing in their minds that weren’t meant to be shared—as if they were mere angels. They felt the confusion of the weakest Choir, overwhelmed with raw power they weren’t used to, and the whispers of reassurance of the oldest Choir that it was how the Host had been once.

Individuals who were almost a sole entity once their wings and grace entwined, with the archangels at the top, linking them to their Lord and Father.

For a while, they reveled in the Host awe, their songs of love and devotion to their Father, praising Him through melodious prayers for a miracle that hadn’t happened in millennia.

Heaven felt home again, perfect in every aspect.

Of course, there was discordant notes in the laudation, because of that part of themselves that had shattered into pieces that couldn’t be reassembled. The paths the four of them had taken, the core of their dissension and the reason Heaven was at war with itself, whereas harmony formally reigned. The wails however, were lost in the myriads of cries of wonder and admiration. Astonishment also filled the Host, pressing incessant curious questions to why an event of this caliber happened, as their Father’s presence hadn’t be sensed yet.

They couldn’t afford to linger on it, though. It was time to deal with a more important matter. An ethereal euphony resonated through the Host when the Herald blew in his horn, announcing the beginning of the audience. At the sounds, the whole Host went silent. 

In the center of their figure, standing in the large space under the throne itself was Metatron, whose wings shrank against him upon hearing the song, oscillating with nervousness, awe and fear. That was as one should feel when seeing archangels in their full glory, a reminder of the might their Father had bestowed upon them. That included the infinite love they felt for  _almost_  all Creation and the resulting will to chastise misbehaviour with fair but strict punishments, making an example of every single one of them.

Their voices was one when they spoke,  _Métatron, fils de l’homme faict ange par la main de Nostre Seigneur, eslevé à le ranc de scribe par la parole de Nostre Souvrain._ They bowed in respect, tips of feathers soaked in the water, following their Father’s will about His scribe, whose uneasy stance were nothing but entertaining.  _Tu nos as convoqué, et com le Seigneur aye ordené, nos sommes venuz._ As they hadn’t had any reason to use it for eons, the overly pompous of the holy language's old form felt weird. Still, they had to utilize it for the goal they were aiming for.  _Parle maintenant, ta parole est escoutee._

Metatron babbled useless formal salutations in answer, losing himself in it until they eventually nudged him as he was becoming annoying. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, wings flapping nervously, blinked to many times, a faint remnant of his long-passed mortal life.

_Les nephilims doibvent estre destruis._

And that was all. Metatron fell silent then, anxiety pouring out of him as he was wondering what they would do to him now that he had delivered their Father’s command. A touch to his mind told them he was saying the truth, and that infinitely short message was all he had been given.

_Grans mercis, Métatron. Va dans la bénédiction du Seigneur._

When he departed less than an instant later, the Host rejoiced with an unrestrained puerile bliss, like they were cherubs or cupids. Still, they were willing to let them continue singing their delight. After all, they were nothing less than warriors, waiting to execute their Lord’s every words. And that was without mentioning a simple fact: it was the first time since forever the majority of the Host was on the same wavelength.

* * *

So far the weather was still good, rays of light shining through the multicolored foliage above their heads. Kára was watching the painting-like picture of bright strokes of reds, oranges and golds; pieces detaching themselves from it, then slowly spinning in the air. 

It was far different from her memories from her last passage, nearly one year ago. At the time, in the heart of one of the hardest winters she had ever known, there had been nothing but white and tints of blacks and greys. The branches had made like an arch above them, with snow falling on the road whenever its weight became too heavy.  

If she closed her eyes, she was sure she would be able to see herself back then. Curly red hair sticking everywhere, freshly and badly cut, as she had done it herself. Thórvaldr had been standing as close as he could without his bay mare running into Logior. At that time, the two of them had been unwilling to be separated if it could be avoided. In fact they acted like a crutch, helping each other even more than usual. With that in mind, the jarl’s sworn brother, her dear husband had also cut his long blond hair above his ears, in respect to her decision and the path she had chosen to walk on from that period.

She would be eternally grateful to him, she thought as Myr and Adalrikr’s loud chatter drew her attention. She hadn’t noticed that the veidimadr had finished dispensing his lesson to his apprentice, and moved forward to speak with the other valkyrie, leaving the youngest ones to themselves, wondering about what kind of wonders their travel would offer.

“So, both of you never went farther than Febœr, right?”

“Nope.” Adalrikr frowned as he added, “Mother never wanted me to go too far from Thorhöll, pretexting it was too dangerous,” he said with the irritation of young warrior eager to prove themselves. He shook his head then. “And when she says far, it means farther than the Kormak farm.” 

“And you actually never went farther?” Myr giggled when Adalrikr nodded, passing a hand on the light fuzz covering his reddened cheeks. “Geez, Rik, you’re such a mama boy!”

“Oh, shut up, Myr! Mother can be freakishly scary. Valkyrie, you remember? She'd put a fucking tracing galdr on me, just to be sure.”

“You’re her boy,” Kára replied, brushing a leave away from her eyes. “Mothers can quite quite protective.”

“No one is that protective! Mother only let me go with you because I turned sixteen, whereas anybody else would have begin travelling with their master far earlier. It’s been a while since I’m not a little boy to be protected.” Adalrikr’s frown deepened and Kára stopped herself from laughing at his typical boyish offense.

“Your age doesn’t matter, you’re still your mother’s boy.”

“At least,” Myr cut his friend when he was about to reply. “You still have your mother. You can’t say the same for everyone.”

“You still have your father.”

Kára rolled her eyes. “Stop right there, both of you! You know better than play the have-you-got-any-living-parents? game.”

After all, it was common knowledge that in the whole hold and more particularly in its capital, almost no one over fifteen winters old hadn’t lose one or both parents to the war or other smaller misfortunes, but lethal nonetheless. Myr’s mother had died in childbirth, the poor woman had lost too much blood to be saved by the midwives or even the völva. Skuld’s husband had met his end when a drunk fight that had degenerated into a full brawl. At least, he had died sword in hands.

“Sorry,” Myr eventually said, his head low.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t have said that,” Adalrikr completed with an apologetic smile.

After that, they fell silent. Kára took some time to listen to the chirping sound of birds and the clop of hooves on the cracking leaves the road was covered in. In front of them, Róta and Arnulfr had also stopped speaking, the second his head turned to the right, ultramarine eyes squinted as he seemed to examine something in the distance. If they had heard them talking—that was a very high possibility—they had chosen to ignore it. She sighed. 

“So, you two must be excited,” she eventually said to lighten the mood. 

“Pretty much yeah. Vatnreid is the second largest town of hold, at the confluence of the Geirgautr River and the Helgeindridr River so, the scenery must be really something to see.  _And_ ,” he told it like it was the most important thing. “I heard there’s friendly and peaceful alfar living in the town.”

“Really?” Myr turned to Kára. “Is that true?”

“I’ve always seen a couple of them each time I stop there. Never talk to one though.”

Truth to be told, she never had the reason to do so. And as a valkyrie, protectress of the Nords, she was used to have to deal with hostile and nuisible supernatural beings, fighting alongside veidimadar like Arnulfr. That was why, even though, the Vatnreid’s alfar were pacific, she was wary of them and did her best to avoid any contact with them if it wasn’t necessary. It never had be in the past so she fairly doubted it would be now.

“I’d love speaking with one of them. I hope we’ll be able to.”

“Yeah, that would be pretty awesome.”

Kára rolled her eyes to Adalrikr’s remark. Trust these young clansmen to be excited about something they should be cautious of. Especially Adalrikr, who were to be a veidimadr when he would finish his apprenticeship.

“Really Adalrikr?” Arnulfr suddenly intervened. “Must I remind you how dangerous alfar are? Although these ones are able to live in harmony with Nords, they could still kill you in no time. Even worse, they could enchant you.”

The apprentice seemed about to retort something, but didn’t. It always was a rather bad idea to try to talk back to his mentor. Instead he shrugged and turned his eyes to the scenery, gently petting his horse’s black mane with a hand. Kára let a soft chuckle out, amused by his quiet temporary resignation: she was certain that the moment Arnulfr wouldn’t be listening, the boy would be talking about friendly alfar again. That was kind of cute. Childish for the man he was supposed to be with his sixteen winters, but it was so refreshing to see he had kept some innocence she couldn’t help her gladness. She also wished Aldi would have grown up to be a little like that, since it was a luxury her  generation hadn’t had. 

“Anyway boys,” Róta said from the head. Kára could almost hear the smile in her words. “Alfar will have to wait. We will make a short stop to Heidarthorp before Vatnreid. Don’t worry, it’s on our road. I want to speak with the villagers to see if they have some informations about the draugar.” That last part were directed to the other adults, who just nodded. “And there’s that  _succulent_ ale they produce, which I absolutely want to buy.”

* * *

 _Lucifer, watch your words_. Michael was literally radiating annoyance. 

Of course Lucifer wasn’t helping with his state of mind at all: the smug bastard was far more amused by the situation than he should have been. Not that he should have been amused in the first place. However, that was just so him to take glee in that kind of thing and it would have been foolish to expect anything else from the Morning Star.

 _But, brother, can’t you see how funny this situation is? I mean, Dad wanted us to bow to humans and love them. And—I’m impressed—some of us actually_ did _it. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that sort of thing just a logical consequence of what he asked of us?_  Lucifer replied even though it was unnecessary since the others knew everything he thought.

The four of them were still in the same position, less than eager to leave the embrace of their brothers, or disentangle from them, as if doing that would instantly break the peace they had achieved for now. With that being said, they had put the psychic veil back in place, warding most of their thoughts from the other Choirs.

_What are you insinuating, Lucifer?_

_Don’t play stupid, Michael. You already know, don’t you? What I’m asking is why Dad want us to destroy the fruit of his first-born children and favorite children’s love? Love or whatever could push an angel into a_ human _’s bed._

_We must not question His words._

Oh dear, they were at it again. The eternal argument was about to come, one more time. An irritable time bomb Michael in a corner, and a Lucifer doing his best to make him explode on the opposite side. This time though, Gabriel couldn’t let that happen. Not when their Dad had spoken and given His command. Clear and limpid. He jerked his wings up and down, knowing the friction with their feathers would be uncomfortable enough to attract their attention. It didn’t fail: Raphael and the two idiots were suddenly concentrating on him, questioning.

_Both of you, stop. Focus on the matter at hand and our actual mission. Nephilim, remember? Now do one of you know more about them than “the fruit of his first born children and favorite children’s love”?_

_How could we know?_ Lucifer nudged him playfully while answering,  _Aren’t you the one who likes to watch them, Gabriel?_

 _Actually, I have seen one,_  Raphael said calmly before Gabriel told the bastard to go to hell.  _Let me show you._

Through their link, he shared a fragment of his memories. It was a female baby in the hands of her mother. She was born only a few hours ago and, like all human babies at birth, she had an ugly crumpled face. Her big eyes had lavender-colored irises, with swarms of infinitesimal spots of light. Like there was grey stars in them. It would have been invisible to anyone but a creature of the stature of an archangel. For Raphael, it had been obvious that he was seeing shards of grace in this human.

And, in that way that characterized cherubs, Katan—not the name the mother had given her, but what Raphael used when referring to her—already had a full awareness of her surroundings. When, the archangel slipped into the room, without a vessel, she was silently complaining in her own mind that her mother wouldn’t understand her words. To that, Raphael answered with amusement that was because the sounds she made were no more than mere cries to a human ear. He hadn’t thought she would hear him. She had.

She had turned these weird eyes of her to look straight at him, letting out an approving gurgle coupled with a dribble of saliva who dropped on her chin. She then put her arm in the air, reaching out for him with chubby fingers. Although his wings quivered with annoyance, when the little thing  _ordered_  him to touch her with his “pretty fluffy lights”—Gabriel and Lucifer didn’t wait to laugh, earning a hard pull on their feathers and Michael disapprobation—he still let the tip of his middle wings skim over her cheeks, making her loudly chirp with glee.

 _This is so very yucky Raphael,_ Lucifer commented as in the memory, Katan  _took_  a handful of his feathers to put it in her mouth as if it was a breast to feed on, putting drool all over them.  _No, scratch that._ He quivered in disgust. _This is foul, at the very least. For Dad’s sake, that thing can_ actually _touch us. She touched an archangel. Why is she even allowed to live?_

 _Last time I heard, she isn’t,_ Gabriel remarked, complacency making his wings vibrate.

Lucifer ignored him.  _If the Nephilim can see, hear and touch us, who knows what else they could do. Even if Father had not commanded it, they should die nonetheless. They are too dangerous._

Gabriel liked to compare Raphael’s usual state of mind as the zephyr, soft and gentle, blowing in the sky with an unalterable serenity. When picturing it at the moment, the zephyr had grown more agitated at Michael’s words; here and there, clouds forming and strong blast of air blowing them.

 _Brothers,_ Raphael eventually said after a while, his thoughts full of a determination and conviction similar to Lucifer’s when the latter was arguing for what he believed was right.  _Katan shall not be harmed_ , he asserted. Michael shifted, ready to answer back. Raphael didn’t let him, explaining himself further,  _No, Michael, listen to me before repeating the Words of God. I have been watching Katan her whole life, to learn more about her kind amongst other reasons. She is innocent and starting from now, under my protection. I vouch to take care_ myself _of any angel who would try to harm her, including you, brothers. She is not to be touched._

 _Don’t worry, Raph. I’m not the one who’ll lift a finger on her._  Gabriel couldn’t help the immense proudness for his ever cool and pragmatic having found a cause to defend. He didn’t remember seeing Raphael invest himself in anything that wasn’t work.  _Just don’t make cherubs with her,_ he added with amusement, much to the other’s dismay. 

_I’m not keen on more fighting with my brothers. One is enough for me._

After Lucifer spoke, they turned to Michael, whose multitude of thoughts was swirling between them.  Love for all of them, as strong as the will to do their Dad’s command like the good boy he was. Irritation to see Lucifer rejoice in the fact Raphael was opposing him, drawing a parallel between the two, and Lucifer’s hope that, if he granted Raphael’s wish, there was a chance he would grant Lucifer’s. There was also the thrill to see his brother act like the powerful and fearsome warrior he was, not hesitating to stand up for the things he considered right.

 _What is she for you?_ Michael decided to ask before taking his decision. 

_I can’t say I’m not curious about what a Nephilim can do. While she seems like a normal human to her pairs, I’ve been speaking to her in the dream realm. She’s aware of her peculiar nature, without really knowing exactly what she is. I rather like our discussions, and as I said sooner, she is innocent._

_Interesting, isn’t it, Mike? Keeping one of them would be wise, as she can inform us of what they can do. And, there’s this little thing. Think, brothers, with their mixed blood, her bloodline would be strong enough to make ideal vessels for us._

_Alright,_  Michael finally said after a long silence. He pursued with the grave tone he used when he was announcing important decisions,  _This one will be allowed to live as long as she stays innocent. No harm will be done to her, as she will bear the protection of an archangel as if she were a prophet. Raphael, from now and until she dies, the Nephilim Katan is your charge. As such, you will take responsibility for any of her actions. In the case of her becoming a danger to humans or angels…_

 _My sword will find her heart_ ,Raphael cut him. 

His conviction strong and steady, as he was persuaded that moment would never came and that Katan would never reveal herself to be nefarious to anyone. Gabriel hoped for him that would be the case. While he didn’t care at all for the little mixed-blood, he apprehended what would Raphael’s reaction be if he had to kill her. Speaking about it and actually doing it wasn’t the same thing. And there was enough conflict home; a three-sided archangelic war wasn’t needed.

_Are you sure it’s what you want?_

_I wouldn’t want it otherwise, Michael. She was my duty from the first time I saw her._

_So be it._

_Now Michael, why aren’t you as pliable with me?_ Lucifer’s voice was nothing but smug.  _I’m sure we can come to something we both are satisfied with._

 _Because compromise isn’t part of your vocabulary, Lucifer_ , Michael answered back with irritation. 

Gabriel poked hard the two of them with the tip of his feathers at the base of their wings, where it would be particularly unpleasant.  _Stop fighting you too. You’ll have eternity to do so later but for once, please stop._ And that felt good to be able to say that without them being dismissive. 

 _Thanks brothers_ , Raphael said after a while as he tightened their embrace, engulfing their grace with his to share how much affection and gratitude he felt for them in that moment. 

The voices of the Host echoed in their mind, rejoicing and celebrating the love they could perceive through their bond. Even if the psychic veil stopped the angels to have any knowledge of the whereabouts, sensing their leaders’ euphoria was enough to make them blissful; that was what they were meant to be, had been eons ago. 

Gabriel knew it wouldn’t last though: as soon as the Nephilim were out of the picture, Michael and Lucifer would probably be at each others’ wings. But for once, home felt  _almost_  perfect and he couldn’t help the hope it would stay that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the chapter was long compared to the last, and I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> The language the archangels are speaking with Metatron isn't gibberish nor invented: it's Middle French, and Métatron is just the French's spelling of Metatron.


	4. Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives at Heidarthorp at last, a welcomed pause where they will be able to eat and drink a little. Now, why is a giant pissing in the well in the middle of the main square?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo guys, you are lucky. I'm not late or something and two weeks haven't passed yet.  
> Anyway, this chapter is Kára-centric and the next will be Gabriel-centric.  
> 

Readers, friends, if you turn these pages  
Put your prejudice aside,  
For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,  
Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious.

_— Gargantua and Pantagruel_ , François Rebalais

* * *

They were approaching Heidarthorp at a steady trot, eager to tale a small pause in their ride to eat, drink and move their sore limbs. Their chatter stopped when the wall appeared in the distance though, tension filling the air. It was so tall the tip of his head, a white bush of spiky hair, was over the high stone fortification, making it visible from the distance.

Róta didn’t have to make a sign, nor deliver an order: she was already drawing her spear and shield out from the harness maintaining them fixed on her back. Next to her, Arnulfr had unsheathed his bow and the boys were doing the same with their own weapons.

They could have charged through the open gates, taking the creature by surprise. The veidimadr and her would surely have done that if it weren’t for the valkyrie módir, who made them slow down. She spoke a few words with one of the guards, all them unharmed if nervous about the colosse down the road, in the middle of the town’s main square. 

Arnulfr was drawing the string of his bow back, aiming at the creature, ready to shoot on order. Kára’s grip on her weapons tightened and she braced herself for an incoming battle. However, Róta didn’t order them to attack; she simply lifted a hand in a peace gesture.

“Oh dear! Look at him!” She was grinning from ear to ear, not even trying to suppress chuckles as they advanced on the path, the sides packed with townspeople staring at the creature.

It was Kára’s first encounter with a brunnmigi. The most noticeable thing about it was how human it—him?—ooked. Its brows were thick and hairy and cheekbones high. A shaggy beard ran along its chin, as white as its hair reunited in a long braid in his back, with strands sticking everywhere, as if they were too savage to be tamed into a neat coiffure.

Apart from its gigantic height, the fangs she could see between its parted lips had nothing human. She couldn’t estimate its age because of the wrinkles of its leather-like skin of a reddish brown; not young but how old? With brunnmigi, it was impossible to say. It could have been anything from thirty to hundreds winters.

Róta wasn’t referring to his appearance, Kára figured, when she noticed what the giant was doing.

She struggled to keep her face serious. The creature was singing a popular local tavern song with lewd lyrics— _An’ the damsel had it harde’ n’harde’, had it comin’n’cumin—_ so loud and so out-of-tune Kára suspected it was doing that on purpose. While she cringed her teeth to the insufferable bawdy ballad, she couldn’t help to marvel at its perfect Norse.

Also, joyously swinging to the melody’s rhythm on his feet, he was pissing in the village’s large well.

When they stopped, a couple dozen feet from him, he turned small steel grey eyes on them, brows making a pointy triangle as he furrowed them. The Allfather be blessed, he stopped singing. The horses whined when he lifted a large hand, and Kára readied herself to counterattack if needed. She didn’t though; at her side, Róta hadn’t moved, a large grin on her face and deep wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, sparkling with amusement. It simply scratched its large flat nose, then its chin. Kára forced her muscles to relax.

“I know these blazons, am I in trouble? What I’m saying? Valkyries and veidimadr. Of course I’m in trouble. Please your bow and weapons make me uneasy, would you aim it elsewhere? I’m not hurting anyone.” 

Its spoken Norse was as neat as well, although extremely fast as it wasn’t taking time to breath. A word from Róta and Kára like the boys were sheathing their weapons. It seemed friendly enough, if a little weird, but she didn’t know what to expect of a brunnmigi. At least, it hadn’t tried to assault them, and that was a fairly good point for him.

Except for Arnulfr unsurprisingly, who was neither amused nor impressed. His body was tense, deep blue eyes cold and his mouth a thin line when he snarled, “You’re pissing in a well, brunnmigi.”

“Hárbjarg, not ‘brunnmigi’,” i— he corrected with a grunt. He had a name and so far had been civil, there was no reason not to treat him as a fellow overgrown human. “I’m not pissing in that well for the fun of it, you know. This is peaceful and friendly retaliation. I even payed for my share of mead of make myself piss like a fountain.”

Hárbjarg pointed a load of barrels. Perched on its top like she was a queen, was a familiar young Nord, dark strands of dark hair escaping from the scarf around her head, a isolent cheeky grin and laughing clear eyes. “He did!” Thyra exclaimed, her intonations similar to her older brother’s. Agmundr would be disappointed when he would learn they had stopped by his hometown.

Her intervention didn’t made Arnulfr bulge though, and the brunnmigi lowly growled, not tearing his eyes from the veidimadr’s. After a while, he shrugged, put his pants back. He wiped his hands on the cloth before smoothing the wild locks on the top of his head. That was gross. She heard the badly stifled laughs of the youngest ones behind her, as well as Thyra’s chuckles.

“Okay, look, valkyries, veidimadr. You Nords, it’s all your fault to begin with! You’re messing with my territory and hunting grounds: the animals are going crazy and some even became poisonous to my people! Made me and my family sick!” 

“Why would that be our fault? The High King’s law decrees that humans must _not_ attack pacific vættir. Humans didn’t attack you, did they?” 

“Thick-headed veidimadr,” Hárbjarg grumbled. “Of course they didn’t attack me. Not that humans’ puny weapons could do me much damage anyway. And no!” He ostensibly rolled his eyes, looking fairly amused before he explained himself further, “No _living_ humans attacked us. Your godforsaken undead did. Draugar are messing with my belongings. _Your_ undead, _your_ responsibility, _your_ fault, me pissing in your well for a pacific revenge because I’m not fond of hurting _people_ , I’m not a monster. And I couldn’t let such an affront just go unanswered like it was nothing, could I? My family was hurt!”

Kára asked herself if all brunnmigi had that kind of warped logic or if it was a trait unique to Hárbjarg. Not that she couldn’t see where that was coming from. Anybody would be angry to see their lands and possessions spoilt by enemies. And since draugar had been humans before their afterlife transformation, blaming the Nords must have been natural for the giant. At least, like he had said, his vengeance was quite peaceful for one such as a brunnmigi. The villagers wouldn’t be able to gather water from the well before it was purified, but there was plenty of waterways in the forest. Moreover no one had been harmed so far.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Hárbjarg,” Róta said softly. “Arnulfr, sheath your weapons.” 

He frowned, obviously not happy but obeyed nonetheless: nobody defied a valkyrie’s orders, even ones as respected as veidimadar. Róta reached for him, patting his shoulder to reassure him. She turned to the boys then. 

“Rik and Myr, go to the Gold Leave with Thyra,” she continued, pointing the large tavern on the other side of the village square, its bright red walls a contrast to the brown buildings around. People had gathered at the entrance of the building, watching them intently. “Thyra, tell your father I want three barrels of his finest ale, and ask him to take them here.” When the boys dismounted, she tossed Adalrikr a small purse.  

After the younglings departed, Róta’s attention was back on the brunnmigi, smiling at him. “Speaking is always better with a good home-brewed ale. Heidarthorp’s is amongst the finest I’ve ever tasted. And trust my words, I tasted a lot.” 

“I know. I just drank three barrels, remember?” He laughed loudly. “And I know about valkyries too. ‘The females that never stops’, my people call your kind. Anyway, you seem great for a human, valkyrie. I think I like you,” Hárbjarg said with a large childish grin from ear to ear, a little worrisome because it barred the brunnmigi’s fangs. He was about to add something, but stopped right in his track, mouth left open. Then, he scratched his chin. “Erm… I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Róta Áleifsdóttir. My sister here, is Kára Heimkelsdóttir and the veidimadr is Arnulfr’s Eisson, her husband’s cousin.” 

“A valkyrie with such bright carrot-like hair could only be of the Himinsfall clan,” he said with a nod, eyes never leaving her for a while. Sensing her unease, Logior snorted. Eventually, he passed to Arnulfr who tensed. “A pup of a valkyrie who becomes a veidimadr.” His chuckles were low rumbles. “How unoriginal.” Finally, he crouched until his eyes were at her friend’s level.  “And you, Róta-valkyrie. I remember you. You brilliant human. The pup that fought in the Battle of Loptbord.” 

There was something disturbingly human in Hárbjarg’s fair eyes. This was a look that had seen grief and sorrow, horrors that couldn’t be described. The kind that the survivors of the Battle of Loptbord bore. 

“You were there,” Róta muttered, her right fist over her heart. Then, her hand flew to her braid and Kára heard her whisper prayers. Next, she was stretching her arm to him, a sweet smile on her face. “It’s an honor to meet you, Hárbjarg. May the Allfather bless you.” 

Hárbjarg engulfed the offered hand in his own, slowly kneeled; bent until his head was on the ground as if he was a Nord saluting their High Queen. There was a solemn silence that seemed to last forever. A moment where even though her smile didn’t falter, Róta’s expression were nothing but affliction.

“The honor is all mine, valkyrie módir.”

Loud chatters and laughters broke the moment, as Myr, Adalrikr and Thyra came out of the Gold Leave, bringing food and drink for all of them. Hárbjarg let go of Róta’s hand to sat on the ground, the small of his back against the well and even with that, his head higher than theirs on their mounts. 

“Aha!” he exclaimed, gladness on his visage like nothing had happened. He let out a satisfied grunt while staring at the men who were transporting barrels from the tavern to them. “It’s better when I don’t have to bend in half to see your tiny human heads. Are the pups yours, valkyries?”

“The blond one is Adalrikr, Arnulfr’s liege and cousin, veidimadr in training. The one with the bow is Myr, a thrall whose family served the Himinsfall clan’s for four generations with him. His children will be born free clansmen,” Róta answered  with a smile as the boys distributed horns to everyone, after what they mounted back. 

Hárbjarg must have been pleased, because he turned to the boys with a large grin showing all his teeth. “Hey, pups, do you like stories? Because I like them: good stories with good ale. There’s not much better.”

“What’s the story about?”

Kára rolled her eyes at Adalrikr’s words. Obviously the young man would be excited about that. Every time he could, he would always be where the skalds were, attentive and eager to learn more about the stories they told. A precious trait for veidimadar though, as it was one of the means to hear about harmful supernatural beings that ought to be hunted. The valkyrie herself was curious about what sort of tales a brunnmigi could tell.

“War,” Hárbjarg replied with a large grin, glancing at Róta. “War and history. These are the best in my mind and even if I’m nothing like a skald, good stories are still goods. My words won’t change that. So now, pups, get confortable on your horses, this might be long.”

A few townspeople courageous enough to approach the giant took place around them, seating on empty barrels, or even the ground for some children. Hárbjarg let them settle before taking a long breath. 

“You might’ve heard about brunnmigjar’s longevity. Know that it’s true. Like the alfar, my people live much much much longer than you Nords. I’m Hárbjarg, I’m a brunnmigi born in the Skyvollr Moutains, and I was still a pup, not much older than the pups here when this story began.

“Back then, there’re still thirty holds. The High King, like the others before him was the jarl of Winternid. You might’ve heard about him, Vébjörn called the Great for he had conquered lands from the Southern countries, the hold we called Sumardetta now. The High King had a sworn brother, Tyrfingr Strong-Arm of Himinsfall. Yes, your jarl’s grandfather himself.

“As you know, Winternid and Himinsfall are amongst the oldest holds of the Kingdom. Amongst the holds that never changed name since the Kingdom’s creation and whose rulers still are blessed by the Æsir themselves. And Winternid and Himinsfall have always been under the protection of the mightiest Ás, Odin himself. That’s why the Winternid era was so long: Nords always loved to bow in front of a god-chosen leader. 

“The other main character from my story, even you pups, must know him. He was the jarl of Sólkell, a hold as ancient and powerful as Winternid and Himinsfall, also under the protection of an Ás, Odin’s sworn brother, Loki. Sökkólfr, the most powerful godi the Kingdom had ever birthed. Sökkólfr the Wise, we called him, whose galdrar were so strong it’s said he’d made a deal with Loki himself to obtain it. His name was as feared and as respected as the Great and Strong-Arm.

“Vébjörn the Great was sick, you see, and pupless. So when he eventually died, like everyone thought, he designated Tyrfingr Strong-Arm as he successor. But, as per Nord law, Sökkólfr the Wise defied him for the throne, and they set up a duel. All the Wise lacked in strength, he had in seidr. All Strong-Arm lacked in seidr, he had in strength. And there’s no winner, both incapable to defeat the other one. 

“And, everyone, that was how it began. On one hand, Strong-Arm lost a lot of esteem from his peers. Part of the Nords no longer regarded him as the rightful High King since he hadn’t been able to win. On the other hand, the Wise gained many followers for having kept his ground against a mighty warrior blessed by Odin. 

“Year after year, slowly, starting from little skirmishes to big battles later, the Kingdom broke into a full-scaled civil war with equal supporters to both pretenders. During that time when I wasn’t a pup anymore, but the full-grow adult I’m still am, many ancient clans fell, their bloodlines and holds were absorbed into others. The Kingdom was growing weaker and weaker because it had lost his unity.

“After thirty long years, Tyrfingr Strong-Arm and Sökkólfr the Wise decided it was time to finish their quarrel. For their battle, with the blessing of their respective Ás, they chose Ásglamdyrr, the hold that never belonged to anyone but the Æsir, where no other holds would be damaged. A sacred ground for a sacred battle!

“That was forty years ago and Strong-Arm had already begun to grow old, whereas the Wise’s seidr had only grown with his age. It was also the winter Himinsfall jarl’s pup, Heimkell turned a man by Nord traditions. He lost his father that same day, at Sökkólfr the Wise’s hands. On his father’s deathbed, Heimkell swore an oath to reconquer his clan’s lost honor and take revenge against Sólkell jarl. He didn’t act on the spot though, as Heimkell was far from an idiot. He was only sixteen and inexperienced where Sökkólfr was more than thrice his age and an exceptional godi. His own people were grieving too, destabilized by their jarl’s death. He clearly wasn’t ready, yet.

“So to keep his clanshold, Heimkell bowed to Sökkólfr. And years passed in a relative peace. Heimkell used that time to discreetly maintain and gather allies. When he eventually marched all the way to Sólkell, his army was bigger than everything that was seen before. They stopped at the gates of Loptbord, the Kingdom’s capital at the time, at the heart of Sólkell. That was the great Battle of Loptbord, twenty years ago.

“To protect his people and defend his city, the now-old jarl of Sólkell asked for Loki’s help. And the mischievous Ás answered his favorite’s prayers, casting the Midgard Serpent on Heimkell and his men in exchange for the Wise’s soul. I remember when hundreds men died with only one movement of his tail. I remember running away from him, panicking as I saw his head emerging from the water on the coast, with fangs that could pierce even brunnmigjar’s skin. There weren’t the proudest moments in my life, but I didn’t want to die and there’s no way one hit of the beast would’ve left me unharmed. 

“That’s a chaotic battle, because it wasn’t only Nords, but also vættir. As Sökkólfr the Wise was no more, his clansmen were lost and confused. And Loki—as he always does—had deceived them since his damned son would kill Sólkell clansmen and Heimkell’s without discriminating. When Heimkell announced he welcomed any warrior willing to battle against the monster, since he’d no quarrel with them now that Sökkólfr the Wise was dead, it grew even more confusing.

“There were much more dead than anytime before, even more than the already deadly Ásglamdyrr Battle. No one seemed to know who they were fighting against anymore. Civil inhabitants of Loptbord were caught in it too, mates like pups. Even now, I still dream about the streets so full of corpses we couldn’t do anything than stepping on it. Many of us were starting to lose hope and there were lots of deserters.  

“But then, Heimkell found the solution. Heimkell ordered his sorcerers to invoke Jörmungandr’s arch enemy, Thor. I still see him offering his own soul to him, as a sacrifice for the Ás to grant his wish to battle at his army’s side against the serpent. Heimkell’s generals also offered theirs, for Thor to take Loki away with him, to stop him for causing more troubles after the battle.

“That’s how, Heimkell gained his title Oath-keeper and to honor his sacrifice, the jarls left bowed to the one he’d designed as his successor and battle companion, his eldest pup, Líkreifr, our current High King.” Hárbjarg concluded, emptying his third barrel, long after everyone had finished their ale, “And that’s it. It’s how peace was achieved, pups, in the blood and of the bones of thousands Nords, because of the Æsir.” 

There was sounds of claps all around them; people had slowly gathered around during the story, curious to listen to what the brunnmigi had to tell. Kára had to recognize that while Hárbjarg wasn’t really a good story-teller, even less a skald, his tale had been compelling enough to make her want to hear it through the end; she knew for a fact that the end of the story was true. She had heard that part so many times since her childhood: the glorious sacrifice of her father and his mates leading to a golden era the Kingdom hadn’t seen in ages.

Next to her, Róta was munching on her inferior lips, the rest of her face still and her eyes unfocused, slightly wet. Not for the first time, Kára asked herself how horrible the battle had been to make her friend that contemplative and sad. And Róta wasn’t the only one scarred. In a way or another, every survivors she knew first-hand had some issues. Reifr hadn’t been able to look at their parents’ portraits since then, pictures that their grandmother would always gaze upon, like it would give them back to her. And Skuld too: the valkyrie had taken refuge in alcohol, an unhealthy addiction so hard to shake off that even being effective in her duties hadn’t been enough. She only had found the will to stop when she had found out—four years later—she was pregnant with Adalrikr.

Said boy was currently chatting with Myr, making large gestures in the air. Both of them enthusiastic about how cool it must have been to meet and battle against the Midgard Serpent, at the side of the Allfather’s son nonetheless. Typical of them. Meanwhile, Arnulfr didn’t seem affected, his eyes fixed on the arrowhead he was sharpening with a dagger. His strokes were a little to harsh for him to be in his normal state of his mind though. Moreover, Kàra had spent enough time with him to know that he never squinted so much when taking care of his weapons.   

“That’s an interesting story you told, brunnmigi.” A man stepped out of the crowd, a crooked smile that seemed a little wicked on his face. “So, you were in the Battle of Loptbord. Might I ask why one of your kind engaged in some petty human fight?”  

Kára studied him as the stranger stood next to Hárbjarg, head high and proud and seemingly unimpressed by the giant. In fact his confidence reminding Kára of Reifr when he was the High King more than her brother, confident and arrogant like only the most important persons were. The ones who knew they stood higher than others. This one though, she was sure he wasn’t a jarl nor a godi, and didn’t remember seeing him in pictures. It intrigued her.

Hárbjarg bent to try to met the mystery Nord’s eyes. “You are an ignorant thick-headed Nord. I was born here, I grew up here, I will die here. Himinsfall is my home as much as it’s yours, Nord, so tell me why I wouldn’t fight for it? If you think my birth race has anything to do with how I feel for these lands, think again. Never assume humans are the only ones who care about that kind of things,” he growled lowly between barred teeth, defending his honor like a Nord. That made Kára appreciate the brunnmigi a lot more.

The crowd around him went silent, and some people stepped away, scarred by his aggressive tone, like he was menacing all of them and not just the mystery Nord, whom he was glowering at. That one however, was unfazed. He only shot a brow high in a mocking expression.

“Why are you mocking me, Nord? Did you think all of my kind were some savage beasts incapable of rational thinking? We are _not_. And I’m not some stupid animal, I have a name so use it. It’s Hárbjarg, not brunnmigi.”

“I meant absolutely no offense, my dear Hárbjarg.” Though the man put his hands in the air in defeat, the amusement was clear in his voice. “If you feel that way, please accept my most sincere apologies.”

The giant just shook his head, all belligerence absent when he answered, “No, no, don’t mind. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m used to it.” He shrugged and passed a hand in his hair. The next instant he was waving an index at Róta, like he had already forgotten about the man. “So, Róta-valkyrie, I remember you saying something about speaking earlier and I’ve been the only one to do so until now. Not that it’s your fault, but well, what did you want to talk about?” 

Róta’s eyes lit when she replied and Kára lost interest in the conversation as soon as the valkyrie inquired about Hárbjarg’s family. She already knew where that was heading as her friend never had been of the unpredictable ones. She would ask him to join them if he could afford it: on their whole company, they were five against an unknown—they wouldn’t know exactly before reaching Angradr—number of draugar. It was certain there would be plenty of them to dispose of.  

Brunnmigjar were the less tall race of giants, less sturdy and less powerful—in terms of giants anyway—but compensated by their speed and agility according to the documentations veidimadar had gathered. She didn’t know how much it was true—somehow, she was afraid to know how tall were the other giants and couldn’t really picture one—but she also knew it would be foolish to refuse his help if he was offering it. Anyway, Róta wouldn’t let that occasion pass, even if she could see from here Arnulfr’s disapproving scowl as he took another arrow from his quiver.

“Lady valkyrie,” the rude man said with a grating voice that caught her attention. He was staring at her left spaulder, its steel emblazoned with Himinsfall’s crest. It was the side view of a wolf and a fox looking at opposite directions. They were separated by the Allfather’s holy lance, Gungnir that stood in the middle of the crest. Like all valkyries, a raven with its wings spread out was on the bottom. 

His eyes went up—he was shorter than her, but then, she was a very tall woman—to meet hers. Kára held back a surprised noise. It was the first time she saw that color in someone’s eyes. It reminded her of the torchlit hydromel drunk in taverns, shifting hues of a brownish gold. Here and there, she could also see speckles of an asparagus green. It was a peculiar mix, strange but beautiful, fitting perfectly with his light brown hair with blond highlights. The afternoon sunlight gave it a golden tone, like he had a halo around his head.

“Are you lot in some sort of quest?”  

He punctuated his question by a wriggling of his eyebrows. Kára rolled her eyes at his silly action. Did he thought she was some young damsel waiting to be swooned by a some handsome traveller? 

“Yes. The five of us are on a hunt. There have been a worrisome number of draugar attacks since last year. We’re hunting a large group of them and they’re going to the East, so are we.”

“Well, what a coincidence, I’m also travelling that way,” he answered with a charming smile. Kára stopped herself to openly laugh at the stranger. “By the way, I’m called Dolos Gaiuson.” He was definitely not a pureblood Nord, although he could have passed for one with his perfect Norse if not for his peculiar eye color. “My great-great-grandmother was a thrall from the Southern lands. It’s a tradition to give my bloodline a name from her natal hold,” he added after a while, caressing his beard. “It could have been so much worse.”

“Do you speak her language? What does your name mean?” Kára had to say the man’s origins had awaken her curiosity. The Southern lands had never been more than stories in books and songs for her, beyond the Kingdom’s borders, thus her reach. She had never thought she would even meet someone of Southern descent. That made Dolos—what a really weird name, she couldn’t even begin to guess what signification it had, maybe his eye color?— quite interesting. Now if he could stop with the stupid flirting, that would be better. 

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just a meaningless name. And to answer your first question, I speak a lot of languages,” he announced proudly, winking at her. Behind her, she heard Myr and Adalrikr’s very badly repressed chuckles. “I’m a skald.” When he put a hand on Logior’s neck, the stallion snorted, making Kára mentally laugh. “So, Lady valkyrie, what can be your name? I’m sure that unlike mine, it’s quite lovely.” 

“I’m Kára, daughter of Heimkell of the Himinsfall clan. You, skald.” She refused to use his name. Partly because she knew she wouldn’t pronounced it the way he did, mainly also because he was getting on her nerves. “Are one of the lamest person I’ve never seen,” she scoffed.

“That’s what ladies tell,” he replied back, a large grin eating half of his face. “But they like me that way,” he added his voice nothing but innuendo and on his face, the smoky leer of the seducers used to obtain what they wanted.  

Kára could only roll her eyes, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yeah, I actually made a post containing some world building. For this time, it's about the Kingdom. And you'll find it on paper-fold @ tumblr. I also made a master post of the series on LJ at iris-diorama. Check it out!


	5. Firestorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel goes in his vessel's dream realm to establish a direct contact with her. Events don't go as well as he intended and Lucifer really doesn't help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the next chapter, finally. As I promised last time, it's Gabriel-centric. Also, the fantasy is heavy in this one and you'll meet a character directly taken from Norse mythology. Hope you'll enjoy!

Fire’s breath assails  
The all-nourishing tree,  
Towering fire plays  
Against heaven itself.  
 _— Sæmund’s Edda_ , (Thorpe’s tr.)

* * *

The world was nothing but shards of vivid colors without definite forms, like a mad painter had splashed his pigments all around, without thinking of a pattern to draw. Gabriel was watching it with curiosity as he walked through this dream realm, searching for its owner. This time, he had opted for a more direct approach than his previous tries and he was actually quite excited to test it. In fact, his wings were emitting a very light buzz in echoes to his feelings.

"Geez, Gabriel, are you a cherub now?"

And of course Lucifer would mock him for that, which earned him a smack of one wing in retaliation. His brother hissed while touching his brow, where the blow had landed. Not without fascination, Gabriel noticed with a smirk. For the occasion, the archangels wore an appearance the human were familiar with and would be able to communicate with.

For now, there wasn't a single reason Gabriel could think of about why the Morning Star had decided to go with him. He obviously hadn't changed his mind about humans and would also complain about the pettiest things: how feet were a hassle to move in order to walk, how arms were nothing more than awkward limbs or how ten was too many fingers. Moreover, Gabriel didn't buy for one second Lucifer's supposed need to "get a little away from Michael and his preps for battle frenzy and Raphael isn't as fun as you, little brother". Still, he was willing to let it go. Even if his fellow archangel was only irritating at best, he was glad to have a brother by his side for once. It _almost_ felt like Lucifer was genuinely interested in his whereabouts.

When Lucifer pulled on one of his messy blond curls, making them roll slowly between chubby fingers, then pulled on them harder, Gabriel laughed with a high-pitched and juvenile tone he wasn't used to. Then he let out a disgruntled sound when his brother yanked one of his locks. It hadn't quite been painful, but very unpleasant nonetheless.

"What're you doing, Lucy? Do I yank your feathers for fun? No! So please don't do that with these hair. It's really annoying."

"You did when you were a cherub, Gabriel. This is retribution," the little bastard answered with a mischievous grin Gabriel was sure no child would—should for that matter—be able to pull out. Lucifer then slowly shook his head, fingers in his hair. "You see, now that I know how impractical this hair thing is, I pity angels like Zachariah even more. Look at that." He put his hands in Gabriel's hair. "It's so easy to grab and pull them out. And I'm pretty sure it can hurt a lot. So useful in battle."

"So, you'll be pleased to know that these children's hair are fairly short for Nords. Adults usually wear them shoulder-length at the very least, and it's pretty common to braid them or put some ornery objets into it."

Lucifer eyed him with suspicion, reaching out to him with his grace, silently reproaching him the time he passed observing humans, and still failing to understand what his brother—or their Dad for that matter—found in them. Gabriel just rolled his eyes and pulled the other archangel's hand out of his hair.

"This is just stupid. Remind me to keep these things short when I found a vessel. Hair is useless. Not that humans are nothing but useless anyway."

"Actually, I find hair pretty awesome. Human's body in general is pretty awesome, there's so much things they can do with it. Sometimes, I wonder why Dad made us like that." He waved at the air to illustrate his point. "Even lesser angels have better bodies than ours. We don't even have hands!"

Watching the other angels and humans, the wonders they could do with their bodies, made him want to have them in his original form. Lucifer was now staring at him with hazel eyes full of disapprobation, and also some confusion.

"Archangels— _we_ —are the _most_ beautiful beings Dad ever created, Gabriel. We don't have hands because we don't need them: we just have to _think_ to obtain what we want, you know that as much as me. Look at Zachariah and his ridiculous four heads. Really, Gabriel, _really_?"

There it was, the Morning Star and that sheer and utter hubris and condescension that were at the heart of his little war games with Michael.

" _We_ ," Gabriel began, tone as sharp and poisonous that he could managed. "look like shapeshifting blobs of light mixed with rainbow droplets, Lucifer. Oh yeah, also three pairs of wings and an aureole. We don't look like anything. No wonder Dad just kept the halo and wings when modeling our little brothers."

"The Host swoon at us, they adore our form."

"The Host swoon at us because of what we are and represent. Dad's voice. His authority, His love and His power. Their archangels superior to them in all domains, the elders they can look up to and thrive to obey," Gabriel said more bitterness in his words than what he had intended. Lucifer watched him with a curious glance, making his brother uncomfortable. "But yeah, Dad did a pretty good work with our wings. I wouldn't trade them for anything."

That time, the Morning Star took one of his hands in his, that eerie smile of him on his face as he spoke, "You see, brother, it's not that bad. And the colors Dad put in our little siblings' wings? It just makes them duller and far less beautiful."

Even though it wasn't as satisfying as touches of graces and wings, although his consciousness of it was only a shade of the sensations he would have on Earth—in his vessel—Gabriel loved the feeling of Lucifer's skin on his. Despite them being in the dream realm, the physical contact felt real enough. Yearning to experience more of it, he entwined their fingers, holding his hand as tight as he could.

"See, Lucy, human body aren't that bad," Gabriel said with a smug grin when he caught the flutter of Lucifer's wings.

"Let's concentrate on finding that human of yours, Gabriel," Lucifer replied back with an icy tone.

That made Gabriel's grin larger. His brother hadn't denied, which meant he had a point. A pretty big point in his mind, for Lucifer had never conceded any positive attribute to being human before. That was a fine beginning.

A long time passed before any of them spoke again. They were now passing through the high stone gates of a port town— _Thorhöll_ , Gabriel informed the other—into a large avenue. Here the colors blended into splashes of random hues and chaotic shapes. People were everywhere, a compact crowd that filled the place.

"I still hate them as much as I love Dad and you all," Lucifer said, using his free hand to shove a child out of his way. He watched her, disgust flowing out of him.

Gabriel made a face, ready to reply with a few venomous words. They died in his throat though, as his eyes scanned their surroundings. They had arrived in a large square with a fountain in its middle, its polychrome water gushing out of it to crash on the paved ground. There was something wrong with the crowd. Some people seemed more green, red or blue than they should have been, their skins taking shades they shouldn't have.

In fact, Gabriel noticed as they walked, the more they progressed into the city, the less colored the humans became, droplets of colors escaping into the scenery. He figured that was why it was so strange, as the colors didn't seem to want to fix themselves anywhere, only moving relentlessly.

By the time they arrived at the feet the stone stairs leading to the large castle, half encased into the side of the mountain Torhöll was built in, the people were completely monochrome. On the top of that, some humans were missing their lips, eyes or noses. The phenomena had been so progressive that neither archangels had payed any attention to it before Lucifer remarked with gleeful tone, "Creepy!"

Next, he proceeded to poke one of them in the blank space where the eyes should have been. The poor person stepped back, mouth moving but no sound coming out of it. Gabriel squeezed his brother's hand, ushering him to climb the stairs without further ado. And he was the cherub here, right?

When they finished the first flight of stairs, stepping into a market square. The humans had lost most of their features to become mere humanoid things of a unique color. If not the weirdest dream realm he had lingered in, this one was very high on Gabriel's list. Knowing its owner, the archangel had mostly been waiting for some kind of battlefield.

"This is a pretty accurate representation of humans, don't you think?" Although Lucifer's face was blank, Gabriel could hear the smile in his voice. "Interesting. I didn't think humans could be that perceptive. Maybe it's because it's your future vessel, who knows?"

"If you'd put your head out of your ass and looked at them for what they are, it wouldn't surprise you. They can be quite resourceful."

His brother frowned at him, eyes filled with a malign glow. "Cockroaches are very resourceful and adaptive insects, capable of surviving in most environments given the chance. They are pests nonetheless."

"Your bias is clouding your judgement, Lucy. You're just being an obstinate asshole right now."

Lucifer's smile was feral this time, not remotely human as he squeezed Gabriel's hand with a force that would have crushed a real human's. Gabriel felt frostbiting ripples of grace on his arm. Behind him, his wings shuddered more from the fact Lucifer was attacking _him_ than because of the pain.

"Gabriel, little brother, you sound more and more like Dad's little toy pen? As I said to Michael, I have enough of an archangel to fight with. I made the effort to follow you as a mean to show you how much I love you, even if I can't fathom why you're interested in _humans_. The least you can do is to not disrespect me."

In any other occasion, his brother's words would only have annoyed the archangel. However, coupled with his condescending tone, it made Gabriel's temper flare. He let his human appearance slip to engulf Lucifer in him, letting his brother feel his wrath and power, grace cackling with aggressiveness, ready to attack.

"Do _not_ use that patronizing tone with me, Lucifer," Gabriel snarled. "You are _not_ Dad. I might be younger than Michael and you." He remembered what he was supposed to be for now. He shifted back into his previous childish form. His hands came on the other's naked wrists, marking the skin with sunburns of the same intensity as the frostbites Lucifer had left on him. "I'm still your equal, in status _and_ power. No need to threaten me, I don't _fear_ you."

His brother stared at him, his expression unreadable, and wings totally still. They stood there for a long time, watching each other with cautiousness, unwilling to move as if something bad would happen if they did.

A thunder-like roar rumbled in the air. Around them, the crowd like it was a single entity stopped moving, all heads turning to the horizon in a synchronized motion. Silence fell, making it like time had stilled. Gabriel detached his eyes from Lucifer to look at the clear teal-colored sky. He swore when he saw the black spot in the distance, growing larger and larger at an impressive speed.

In a blink of an eye, it was gliding over the city, its four pairs of wing extended to their full length forming a cross with its body in the middle. As it flew over Thorhöll once more, the sounds of trumpets resonated throughout the place, making everyone go out of their stupor.

Before Chaos could plug its claws into the men, riders emerged from each the side of the square, maneuvering into the mass, shouting to every civilian to follow them and to the warriors to prepare themselves for battle. Of course, there were jostling and hard pushes, but at least, there was a relative order.

 _Let's go, Lucy_ , the archangel said to his brother, taking his hand. Events were finally taking a familiar course. One Gabriel was used to for his vessel would often visit that dream in her sleep. Even if the details changed every time, its core, its storyline always lead to the same ending, which was coming in a too near future. _We don't have much time left_. He needed to make contact with the human before she woke up.

 _Can that creature kill us?_ A large tongue of fire lightened the sky, small sparks raining down to crash against the stone. Lucifer was looking at the sky where large grey clouds are growing at a supernatural rate.

Gabriel's goal stood after the flight of stairs leading to the square were the castle's doors were. They would have to force their way up there, going against the flux of Nords descending it. He ignored Lucifer's incessant complaining to focus on threading a way between the bodies, grateful that they were small enough to do so easily.

 _Yes. No,_ Gabriel answered as they eventually arrived at the first steps of the now cleared stairs. He turned to Lucifer, giving him a brief explanation. _Yes as in it could kill our dream form. No because dying mean we would just be expelled from this dream realm and back to Heaven. Still, the whole process would be_ very _painful._

 _I see where this is going, Gabriel_ , Lucifer commented when they finally crossed the last steps, stopping in their tracks. _You definitely own me one, brother_.

At the other end of the square, columns and reliefs had been sculpted with scenes from the history of the town and its inhabitants in the mountain's side. In the middle of the giant fresco were the majestic high doors to the Sálhvid Palace, house to the Kingdom's throne. They were slowly closing behind a company of a twentieth armor-clad persons, their weapons unsheathed. Contrary to the other people, as they were the protagonists, these ones had normal colors and features.

Gushes of a strong wind swept the area, larger than all the places they had passed through until now. It was wide enough for the dragon to land in a furry of flaps as the party reached the middle of the area, standing at a good distance from the creature. The warriors' formation was simple: they formed a hemicircle with two of them standing in its center.

One had an iron staff covered in runes, long blond hair flowing all around him because of the wind. He was the only one without a helmet, his features as delicate as a painting and fearless blue-green eyes watching the dragon. Even if he wore the characteristic coat, the powerful magic flowing freely around him would have been enough to tell to designate him as the hold's godi. And a powerful one.

He was speaking to the figure next to him, a braid of bright red hair coming from under the helmet to stop in the small of his back. His armor a shining deep blue-black contrasting with his golden long spear and shield emblazoned with Himinsfall's coat of arms. That one was the jarl of Thorhöll, ruler of the Kingdom in all his glory, facing the dragon with typical Nord pride and excitation.

The creature wasn't without majesty either. It had shiny plate-like scales of the darkest and purest obsidian, reflecting the dim light filtered by the clouds above. From its elongated head to the ends of this two forked tails, a golden armor protected the superior part of its thick and muscular body. It stood on four large and long bent limbs, talons clawing at the stone. Its two exterior wings were folded, while the others still flapped. Then, the creature opened its mouth on tusk-like teeth, emitting a series of growls, snarls and much more melodious high-pitched sounds Gabriel knew was the dragon language, even if he couldn't understand it.

 _I don't remember Dad creating such animal_ , Lucifer said with what the other archangel thought was a little awe in his voice. That made Gabriel laugh.

 _Dad didn't. Like a lot of supernatural beings, dragons were already there when Dad created the humans,_ Gabriel replied, an eye on the godi who was answering to the dragon in its own language. _The Nords call that one Fáfnir. Let's hurry_ , he added when the creature hurled, wings flapping madly as it elevated itself in the air, mouth wide open, smoke and energy rapidly gathering there. Gabriel let go of Lucifer's hand and broke into a run, hoping that his short legs would be fast enough. _The dragon's going to attack, we have to join them before that,_ he yelled to his brother, not waiting to see if he was following him.

The king had positioned himself in front of the godi, shield raised in a defensive stand. The latter was praying to Odin, asking for his benediction and strength for the battle to come, seemingly unaware of the rest of the group. Gabriel's eyes stayed on his vessel as she was crouching on the ground, her inferior lip shining with the blood she used to trace the lines of a giant glyph. In the meantime, she—in fact, the other valkyries and her—shouted instructions the others followed without asking questions, heads sometimes turning to the dragon's open mouth.

When they eventually finished drawing an intricate glyph, they placed themselves within the borders of its external circle, Gabriel hurled at his brother, _We've got to be in the circle!_ Now, if he could go faster, it would be all the better.

They had made it halfway when Fáfnir let out a piercing roar. A tongue of fire came out of his mouth. The large sphere of energy and smog ignited. Gabriel swore, failing to go faster, his body already at its limit.

 _We could be there in less than a thought!_ Lucifer was panting, the sound of his footsteps stopped, sign that he had came to a halt.

 _We need to play our part!_ Gabriel replied without looking back. As grating as it was, he couldn't use his grace or wings for he had to maintain the illusion he was a child. Otherwise, his vessel would see through his disguise.

The godi rose his staff in the air, melodious soprano voice chanting a galdr. Strings of runes made of blue light appeared around his arm. They shone brighter, then flickered. One line flew to the jarl's shield, tracing the outlines of its blazon. Another went to the glyph on the ground, setting it ablaze.

Fáfnir answered with a loud roar. Gabriel winced when the stone under his feet shook, making him stumble on a few feet before he regained his stance. His whole body was aching, each breathes nothing but pain as he forced himself to go faster and enter the protective circle before the beast shot its fireball.

The dragon breathed fire on the meteor it had created. Flying sparks rained on the place. Gabriel stripped on his feet when he duck on the side to evade a drop of liquid fire. He rolled on the ground, unable to stop himself, cursing when his nerves sent him shots of vivid pain. He ended on his back just beneath the creature but sheltered from danger, eyes on a black scaled belly glittering with red and orange reflects. Far from Lucifer and far from the humans.

If it wasn't enough, Fáfnir chose the moment to launch its attack. The archangel took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain that would come when he would raise to his feet. He wasn't disappointed. When he put his weight on his right ankle, he fell on his hands and knees, shaking and unable to move.

Great, Gabriel thought as he glanced above. The fireball had stopped in mid-air, pushing against an invisible barrier, the force of the impact making the atmosphere ripple with heath and power. Gabriel watched with awe the blazon of Himinsfall—the wolf and fox separated by a spear—forming a luminous wall between the fireball and the party below. The emblem gradually grown then bent into a sphere to imprison the fireball.

Fáfnir's roar snapped the archangel out of his contemplation and he scrambled on the ground, body hurling with pain and indignation. There was the shattering sound of glass breaking and Gabriel glanced above. The fireball was exploding, smashed its prison to smithereens. Fire and lava hurtled down, gliding on the blue shell of a runic barrier to form waves of liquid fire that were coming right at him.

His eyes went to his vessel, whose helmet only masked the superior part of the face, revealing the pale thin line of her mouth, limbs shaking as he knew she was forcing herself to stay in the protective glyph. For one single moment, their eyes met. She screamed a name that wasn't his and he reached out to her like the child would have done.

A scorching heat pushed him off the ground. He closed his eyes, feeling his body melt away. There was a flutter of wings. When he opened them, Lucifer and him slammed into a very surprised Michael, sending the three of them into the nearest wall. Gabriel let out a loud string of curses as he morphed into his original form, wings quivering with annoyance. He really hoped his vessel hadn't seen Lucifer changed back and flown to "rescue" him.

"Gabriel? Lucifer? What's going on? Are you okay?"

_Your debt is growing larger, Gabriel._

The two archangels said at the same time, making Gabriel's mood shift from annoyance to sulk. In a very ill-tempered gesture, he transported himself at the entrance of the Clepsydre, not deigning to answer to his brothers.


End file.
